THE 

GREATER  MISCHIEF 


DY 

MARGARET     WESTRUP 

AUTHOR  OF 

"  ELIZABETH'S  CHILDREN  "  "  HELEN  ALLISTON  " 
"THE  COMING  OF  BILLY" 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

MCMVIII 


Copyright,  1907,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  February,  1908. 


THE  GREATER   MISCHIEF 


2138733 


THE  GREATER  MISCHIEF 


CHAPTER   I 

A  UDREY  worked  at  her  hem. 

/\  The  light  of  the  lamp  flickered  about  the  quiet  little 
figure,  and  filled  the  rest  of  the  long  room  with  ghostly, 
moving  shadows.  Audrey's  brown  head  was  bent  low 
over  her  work;  slowly,  with  laborious  care,  she  put  in  the 
crooked  stitches  on  the  piece  of  coarse  linen  that  when 
finished  was  destined  to  be  a  pudding-cloth. 

She  sat  at  the  table,  and  only  her  small  shoulders  and 
head  appeared  above  it.  In  front  of  her  there  was  a  cheap 
little  yellow  wooden  work-box;  it  contained  reels  of  white 
and  black  cotton,  pins,  needles,  and  scissors,  all  arranged 
with  an  exemplary  tidiness.  The  same  scrupulous  neat- 
ness was  apparent  in  the  arrangement  of  the  old-fashioned 
frock,  pinafore,  stockings,  hair. 

Alone  in  the  parlor  Audrey  sat  and  worked  at  her  hem. 
It  was  a  rough  night,  and  the  storm  outside  was  increasing. 
The  little  square  gray  house  topped  a  hill:  for  many  years 
it  had  stood,  lonely  and  sad,  defying  storms  with  a  sturdy 
front. 

To-night  the  wind  howled  around  it;  gusts  made  their 
way  in  at  ill-fitting  windows;  the  lamplight  flickered  more 

i 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

wildly,  now  shining  full  on  the  child's  down-bent  head, 
now  leaving  her  in  shadow.  She  worked  on  steadily,  never 
raising  her  eyes  from  her  sewing.  When  the  light  lit  her 
face  it  showed  it  pale,  strenuous,  the  small  lips  folded  with 
an  odd  firmness;  the  delicate  brows  drawn  together  till  two 
little  upright  lines  were  dented  into  her  forehead. 

She  came  to  the  end  of  her  cotton;  she  took  a  reel  from 
her  work-box,  cut  a  length,  and  tried  to  thread  her  needle. 
Always  a  task  beset  with  difficulty,  it  was  rendered  more 
difficult  than  usual  now  by  the  flickering  light.  A  good 
deal  of  time  was  lost;  the  dented  lines  on  her  brow  grew 
deeper;  her  hot  little  fingers  shook  with  nervous  excite- 
ment, and  the  needle  slipped  from  her  hand  to  the  floor. 
She  got  off  her  chair  slowly,  and  as  she  did  so  her  eyes 
leaped  swiftly,  irresistibly,  to  the  dark  corner  by  the  cup- 
board. She  had  known  that  the  Bogey  was  there,  watch- 
ing her,  all  the  time.  It  was  always  there  on  stormy 
nights,  lurking  behind  the  cupboard.  There  were  other 
Bogeys  too  about  the  house  when  the  wind  blew  high. 

She  believed  her  mother  too  knew  that  they  were  there, 
because  her  mother  was  always  different,  always  sort  of 
queer  when  there  was  a  storm  blowing  outside. 

But  then  her  mother  was  so  brave — she  would  never 
be  frightened  at  anything.  She  wasn't  frightened  at  the 
things  that  crept  about  the  house  when  the  wind  blew; 
she  was  angry  with  them,  Audrey  supposed,  that  was  why 
she  was  sort  of  queer.  .  .  . 

Well,  she  would  be  brave,  too.  She  stooped  and  began 
to  grope  for  the  needle,  but — suppose  the  Bogey  were  to 
creep  out  and  pounce  on  her  back  ?  She  rose,  and  stood 
staring  into  the  dark  corner. 

There  was  no  sound  of  life  about  the  little  old  gray 

2 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

house.  Audrey,  a  small  atom  in  the  wild  night,  seemed 
alone.  She  fell  on  her  knees  and  pressed  her  face  down 
onto  the  hard  horsehair  seat  of  the  chair. 

With  the  creaks  and  rattlings  of  the  house  beneath  the 
onslaughts  of  the  wind,  the  fitful  pattering  of  rain  on  the 
window-panes,  her  voice,  halting,  strenuous,  scarcely  more 
than  an  earnest  gasp,  rose  in  a  minor  chant: 

"Have  mercy,  Lord;  Thy  suppliant  save, 
And  heal  the  wounds  Thy  justice  gave  ; 
Nor  bid  Thy  fearful  judgments  roll 
In  angry  billows  o'er  my  soul. 

"My  trembling  heart  bemoans  its  siny 
And  feels  the  bitter  pangs  within; 
O  God,  my  help,  in  pity  save  ; 
For  who  shall  thank  Thee  in  the  grave  ? 

"How  long  the  weary  night  appears! 
My  couch  is  water' d  with  my  tears  ; 
Revil'd  by  those  who  fear  not  Thee, 
My  strength  resumes  with  misery." 

The  shaky  voice  ceased. 

"It  daren't  come  near  me  while  I'm  praying,"  she 
told  herself;  but  there  was  no  confidence  in  the  despairing 
assurance. 

There  had  been  a  lull  outside.  Now  the  wind  flung 
itself  against  the  walls  of  the  house  in  a  sudden  furious 
onslaught;  it  made  its  way,  in  the  shape  of  a  sharp  little 
gust,  into  the  room  where  Audrey  knelt,  and  hit  her  coldly 
in  the  nape  of  her  neck. 

3 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

She  knew  that  the  Bogey  had  come  right  out  of  the 
corner  at  last.  .  .  .  She  knelt  there,  stiff  and  rigid,  her  eyes 
hidden  in  her  hands,  her  hands  pressing  into  the  chair  till 
they  were  sore  and  red  with  the  pressure.  Then  slowly 
she  became  aware  of  the  smell  of  a  blown-out  lamp,  and, 
involuntarily,  she  lifted  her  head. 

The  lamp  had  gone  out  and  the  room  was  in  darkness. 

She  rose  stiffly  to  her  feet,  and  felt  her  way  to  the  open 
door.  In  the  hall  a  hurricane  of  draughts  met  her — 
played  about  her  short  skirt — her  legs — her  hair.  A  lamp 
burned  dimly,  making  more  ghostly  shadows.  She  wanted 
to  run,  but  dared  not;  her  legs  moved  in  slow,  stiff  jerks. 
She  went  up  the  shallow  stairs  and  paused  outside  a  door: 
it  was  the  door  of  her  mother's  bedroom.  She  knew  that 
her  mother  would  be  in  there:  she  always  went  there  when 
a  storm  came  on.  But  Audrey  was  not  allowed  to  enter 
that  room  without  first  knocking,  and  she  was  afraid  if  she 
were  to  knock  now  that  she  would  be  forbidden  to  enter. 
The  need  for  the  presence  of  some  other  human  being  was 
so  insistent  that  it  made  her  usual  obedience  falter,  die: 
she  turned  the  handle  softly  and  opened  the  door. 

The  room  was  lit  only  by  one  candle;  it  stood  on  the 
table.  A  little  way  from  it,  her  spare  little  figure  now  lit 
by  its  light,  now  in  shadow,  Susan  Fielding  stood  staring 
out  into  the  night.  Every  now  and  then  the  light  leaped 
up  and  shone  on  her  face.  It  was  a  small,  rugged  face, 
oddly  lined  and  seamed,  like  a  very  old  and  withered  apple. 
Her  mouth  was  thin  and  obstinate;  it  rarely  relaxed  into  a 
smile,  though  sometimes  there  was  a  touch  of  somewhat 
sardonic  humor  in  its  lines.  In  a  network  of  wrinkles  that 
seemed  to  proclaim  a  weary  struggle  with  life,  a  pair  of  dark 
eyes  were  set  deep,  and  they  bore,  in  some  subtle  way,  an 

4 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

air  of  incongruity  to  the  rest  of  the  face.  They  were  doggy 
little  eyes,  bright  and  intelligent  and  sad,  like  a  fox-terrier's. 
Her  dark  hair  was  streaked  with  gray,  and  she  wore  it 
dragged  back  uncompromisingly  from  her  brow,  and 
wound  tightly  at  the  back  of  her  head.  She  dressed 
always  in  dingy  colors,  with  an  obvious  disregard  of  any- 
thing but  neatness  and  comfort.  But  with  it,  perhaps 
because  all  her  life  she  had  loved  a  scrupulous  cleanliness 
and  much  open  air,  there  was  a  certain  freshness  about 
her,  just  as  there  is  something  fresh  about  a  little  old 
apple,  however  withered. 

A  gust  of  wind  that  set  the  windows  rattling  afresh  had 
deadened  the  sound  of  the  opening  door.  Audrey  stood 
just  within  the  room,  her  eyes  on  her  mother. 

Susan  stirred,  looked  round. 

"Come  here!"  she  said. 

The  child  drew  near  nervously. 

Susan  put  her  hands  upon  her  shoulders,  and  pulled  her 
into  the  light  of  the  candle.  She  stood  staring  down  into 
the  childish  face  upraised  to  hers.  Audrey  stood  quite 
still,  wondering,  looking. 

The  rain  pattered  on  the  window;  the  light  flickered; 
Susan  gazed  as  if  she  would  see  into  the  child's  very  soul. 
Her  face  was  so  sorely  troubled  that  Audrey  ventured  at 
last  a  little: 

"  It  isn't  so  windy  now,  Mother." 

Susan's  hands  relaxed  on  her  shoulders;  she  pushed  her 
away  gently. 

"Why  did  you  come  in  without  knocking,  Audrey  ?  Did 
you  forget  ?" 

There  was  a  pause;  then,  "No,"  said  Audrey,  in  a  small 
voice. 

5 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Then  why  did  you  do  it  ?"     Susan's  voice  was  cold. 

The  pause  lasted  longer  this  time. 

"I — I  was  afraid  you — you  wouldn't  let  me  in  if  I 
knocked,  Mother,"  she  said,  truthfully. 

Into  Susan's  eyes  there  flashed  a  gleam  of  triumph;  but 
her  voice  was  inexorable  as  she  replied: 

"You  should  not  have  done  it.  You  are  a  coward, 
Audrey.  Go  down  and  finish  your  hem." 

Audrey  turned  and  went  slowly  down  the  stairs,  terror 
in  her  face.  Susan  stood  and  watched  her,  then  went  back 
into  the  room  behind  her. 

As  Audrey  reached  the  narrow  little  hall,  a  step — a  ner- 
vous, hurried  step — echoed  in  the  passage  that  led  to  a 
door  opening  on  to  the  garden,  and  a  little  cry  broke  from 
the  child. 

"Amelia!     Oh,  you've  come  back,  Amelia!" 

The  dumpy  little  brown  figure  just  emerged  into  the  hall 
stopped. 

"Yes,  and  wet  through!     And  such  a  night!" 

Audrey  flung  strenuous  arms  about  her. 

"Oh,  Amelia,  I  do  think  you're  so  very  beautiful!" 

The  light  shone  down  upon  a  long,  hatchetlike  face, 
with  light  little  eyes,  and  a  loose  mouth;  upon  a  ludicrous 
little  row  of  brown  curls,  so  tight  and  trim  that  even  the 
storm  had  been  powerless  to  dislodge  them  from  their 
proud  position  at  the  summit  of  a  very  high  and  very  shiny 
brow.  For  the  rest,  Amelia's  hair  was  dressed  with  an 
exemplary  tidiness,  being  dragged  into  a  tight  knot  behind 
the  curls.  Amelia  was  little,  and  thin  in  the  places  where 
she  should  have  been  stout,  and  stout  where  she  should 
have  been  thin. 

"Oh,  dearie!"  A  little  bashful  smile  stretched  her 

6 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

mouth.     "There,  let  me  go!     I'm  drenched  through,  and 
me  so  nervous  in  a  storm!" 

"Will  you  just  light  the  lamp  in  there  for  me,  Amelia, 
dear  Amelia  ?" 

"Where  ?     Oh  yes,  very  well." 

She  ran  with  a  funny  little  side-way  motion  into  the  room 
and  lit  the  lamp. 

"Now  you  get  along  with  your  sewing,  dearie.  I  must 
go  and  get  off  my  wet  things,  or  I'll  be  going  and  catching 
a  cold  on  my  chest.  I  always  was  so  delicate." 

She  trotted,  flat-footed,  from  the  room. 

Audrey,  her  face  determined,  resumed  her  sewing.  She 
kept  her  eyes  fixed  resolutely  on  her  hem,  but  in  her  hurry 
she  grew  hot,  her  nervous  hands  became  sticky,  her  stitches 
black.  She  slipped  from  her  chair  and  ran  through  the 
hall  into  the  kitchen.  In  the  doorway  she  paused,  sur- 
prised. 

Amelia  stood  on  the  table,  her  neck  up-stretched  towards 
the  ceiling. 

"Amelia,"  she  said,  "what  are  you  doing  ?" 

"Lord  save  us!"  screamed  Amelia. 

She  scrambled  from  the  table,  clapping  her  hand  dra- 
matically to  her  right  side.  (Amelia  was  left-handed.) 

"You  mustn't  say  that,"  Audrey  said,  with  a  scared 
glance  over  her  shoulder,  "it's  taking  the  name  of  the  Lord 
in  vain.  What  were  you  doing,  Amelia  ?" 

Amelia's  husky  voice  shrilled. into  sudden  anger. 

"Who  are  you,  I'd  like  to  know,  to  come  and  spy  on  me  ? 
I  won't  have  it!  I've  done  nothing  wrong — no,  I  haven't! 
You're  the  last  one  who  ought  to  be  against  me,  if  all  they 
say  is  true — "  She  paused  for  breath,  and  Audrey's  quiet 
little  voice  put  in  with  a  certain  staid  persistence: 

7 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Why  were  you  standing  on  the  table,  Amelia  ?" 

Amelia  was  brought  up  short:  it  had  happened  often 
before.  Beneath  Audrey's  shy  timidity  there  was  a  strain 
of  determination  that  triumphed  over  Amelia's  weaker 
nature. 

"I  always  was  delicate,"  she  answered  now,  with  a  cer- 
tain mechanicalness,  born  of  much  use  of  the  phrase. 
"There  are  times  when  I  must  stand  on  a  chair  or  table," 
she  added,  hastily,  "it's  the  only  position  that  gives  me  any 
ease.  I'd  have  fainted  most  likely,  just  now,  if  I  hadn't 
got  onto  the  table." 

"Oh,  would  you,  Amelia  ?     I  wish  I'd  seen  you!" 

A  movement  in  the  room  overhead  brought  back  remem- 
brance of  the  half-finished  hem. 

"I  want  a  jam-pot,  please,"  she  added,  her  voice  grown 
anxious. 

Clasping  an  empty  stone  jar  to  her  bosom,  she  ran  back 
to  the  dining-room;  she  set  it  down  on  the  table  before  her, 
and  at  intervals  ceased  working  to  lay  hot,  desperate  little 
hands  against  its  cold  surface.  In  her  mind  there  was  a 
poignant  memory  of  a  night  not  long  since,  when  she  had 
had  to  sit  up  to  finish  a  punishment  hem  till  twelve  o'clock. 
And  her  mother  and  Amelia  had  gone  to  bed  as  usual  at 
ten. 

And  black  stitches  had  to  be  unpicked.  Her  clasp  of 
the  jam-pot  grew  frantic. 

After  awhile  Susan  Fielding  came  into  the  room. 

"Have  you  finished  your  hem,  Audrey  ?" 

"Not  quite,  Mother." 

"Let  me  look." 

There  was  silence  while  the  work  was  examined. 

"It  is  bad.  You  are  seven  years  old."  She  paused. 

8 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Audrey's  hot  cheeks  testified  to  the  fact  that  she  under- 
stood the  analogy  between  the  two  sentences.  "It  is  your 
bedtime,  but,  for  your  disobedience  this  evening,  you  must 
finish  this  hem  to-night."  She  picked  up  a  pin;  then  she 
paused,  her  hand  half-way  to  the  hem,  her  eyes  on  the 
child's  upraised  face,  which  was  full  of  a  shrinking  dread. 

In  the  kitchen  Amelia  dropped  something  with  a  clatter. 
Susan  shut  her  lips  tight,  and  with  ruthless  hand  dug  the 
pin  into  the  hem  half-way  up  the  part  already  worked. 
"That,"  she  said,  "must  all  be  unpicked." 

Audrey  took  back  the  linen  and  picked  up  her  scissors. 

"Perhaps — "  Susan  began,  then  changed  her  sentence. 
"You  are  an  idle  little  girl,  Audrey.  You  are  not  fond  of 
work." 

Audrey,  painfully  digging  the  scissors  into  the  tight  little 
stitches,  did  not  answer. 

"Are  you?" 

"No,  Mother."  There  was  shame  in  the  low  voice  at 
the  awful  admission. 

"I  was!"  The  words  burst  from  Susan  with  startling 
feeling.  "At  your  age  I  could  work  as  neatly  as  I  can 
now!  And  I  loved  it!  I  loved  it!" 

Hot  tears  splashed  down  onto  the  linen. 

"P — p'raps  I  will  s-soon,  Mother,"  Audrey  quavered, 
strong  doubt  struggling  with  hope  within  her. 

"Love  it  or  hate  it,  you've  got  to  do  it!"  her  mother  said, 
harshly. 

She  sat  down  at  the  table  and  drew  a  large  volume  of 
sermons  towards  her.  The  old  grandfather's  clock  out  in 
the  hall  ticked  noisily.  Susan  Fielding,  upright  in  her 
chair,  read  assiduously. 

Audrey's  unpicking  was  a  long  and  painful  task.  At  a 

9 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

quarter  to  ten,  prayer-time,  she  had  just  finished  the  last 
stitch.  She  glanced  despairingly  at  the  long  row  of  little 
brown  holes,  testification  of  arduous  and  wasted  work. 

Amelia  came  in,  and  they  knelt  down.  Susan  read  out 
a  long  prayer.  Audrey  tried,  with  a  terrified  consciousness 
of  her  own  wickedness,  to  think  of  God,  but  she  was  think- 
ing only  of  the  Bogey  in  the  corner;  she  was  living  through, 
in  acute  anticipation,  the  time  when  she  alone  would  be 
awake  in  the  house,  sitting  down  there,  working  for  hours 
and  hours  and  hours.  .  .  . 

"Audrey,  what  did  I  pray  for  last  ?" 

"I— I— for— for— " 

In  the  prayer  that  followed,  craving  the  Almighty  for 
mercy,  humbly  begging  that  Audrey's  frivolous  spirit  might 
be  led  into  the  straight  and  narrow  path,  passionate  feeling 
shook  Susan's  voice.  Vaguely  Audrey  understood  that  she 
was  indeed  a  miserable  sinner. 

After  prayers  the  hem  had  to  undergo  another  examina- 
tion. 

"Only  just  unpicked!  How  slow  you  are,  Audrey. 
Don't  forget  to  put  out  the  lamp  when  you  go  to  bed. 
Good-night." 

"Good-night,  Mother." 

Amelia  lingered,  putting  away  the  prayer  and  sermon 
books. 

"Amelia!" 

"Yes,  dearie?" 

"Oh,  Amelia,  dear,  dear  Amelia,  don't  go  to  bed  just 
yet!" 

Amelia  stood,  her  face  puckered  up  in  worry.  The  row 
of  curls  quivered  agitatedly. 

"I  daren't  stay  up,"  she  said. 

10 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"I  will  pray  for  your  soul  every  day  and  night,  Amelia! 
You'll  very  likely  go  to  heaven  for  it!  Oh,  Amelia,  Jo!" 

"You  know  she'd  never  hear  of  it,  dearie!  She'd  be 
dreadfully  cross,  though  I  am  a  relation,  even  if  it's  only  a 
poor  one!  But  you  get  along  with  your  work — I'll  dawdle 
putting  the  room  in  order." 

Audrey  seized  the  linen,  and  set  to  work  with  feverish 
haste.  Amelia  bustled  about  aimlessly,  doing  nothing 
with  elaborate  care.  In  a  little  while  the  door  was  pushed 
open  and  Susan  came  in.  She  had  not  begun  to  undress. 
In  the  light  of  the  candle  she  held  in  her  hand  her  face 
looked  grim;  she  turned  her  dark  eyes  with  a  peculiar 
glare  upon  Amelia. 

"Go  to  bed!"  she  said. 

She  closed  her  lips  on  the  words  as  if  she  were  shutting 
back  more. 

Amelia  began  to  make  excuses. 

"I  was  clearing  up!  You  always  hate  a  room  to  be 
untidy,  Susan,  and  I  was  out  earlier — " 

Suddenly  the  gleam  in  her  eyes  blazed  into  passion. 

"How  dare  you!  How  dare  you  stand  there  telling  lies 
to  me  ?  Do  you  think  I'm  blind  and  deaf?  I  know  what 
you  are  doing!  You  are  always  trying  to  spoil  my  work — 
to  ingratiate  yourself — to  win  her — "  She  stopped,  the 
almost  incoherent  words  ceasing  as  suddenly  as  they  had 
begun.  She  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Go  to  bed,"  she  said 
again,  and  waited  till  Amelia  had  left  the  room.  Then, 
without  a  word  to  Audrey,  trembling  on  her  chair,  she 
followed  her. 

In  a  few  minutes  Amelia  came  creeping  stealthily  back. 

"I  want  a  piece  of  rag  for  my  curls,"  she  whispered. 
"I've  lost  mine." 

2  II 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

She  trotted  over  to  a  work-basket  and  took  what  she 
wanted.  As  she  neared  the  door  again,  Audrey's  voice, 
sharp  with  despair,  pursued  her. 

"Amelia,  could  you  walk  up  and  down  your  room  just 
for  a  little  while  ?" 

Amelia's  kindly,  foolish  face  brightened  with  relief. 

"What  a  one  you  are  for  thinking  of  things!  Yes, 
dearie,  and  of  course  you'll  be  able  to  hear  me  and  won't 
feel  so  lonesome." 

"Yes,  Amelia." 

Amelia  trotted  to  her  side,  and  bent  and  kissed  her  fore- 
head. Audrey  flung  her  arms  round  her  neck. 

"You — you  will  make  a  noise,  won't  you,  Amelia  ?" 

"Yes,  dearie,  she  can't  hear  me  from  her  room — " 

There  was  an  intonation  of  contempt  in  her  tone  that 
brought  the  sudden  quick  color  to  Audrey's  cheeks. 

"Mother  is  so  brave,  Amelia,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  oddly 
dignified. 

Amelia  snorted,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Good-night,"  she  said.  "And  be  quick  with  your 
hem,  now." 

As  she  cautiously  ascended  the  stairs  a  strenuous  voice 
pursued  her: 

"Amelia,  could  you  just — drop  something?  It  would 
sound — friendly,  Amelia!" 

"All  right,  dearie,"  in  a  frightened  whisper. 

Audrey  went  back  to  her  chair  and  tucked  her  feet  up 
under  her.  That  other  night  a  black  beetle  had  crawled 
along  the  floor  under  the  table:  she  had  a  nervous  horror 
of  black  beetles.  From  overhead  there  came  three  quick 
thuds,  then  a  measured  tread,  then — bang!  Amelia  had 
dropped  her  soap-dish. 

12 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

A  little,  nervous  smile  curved  Audrey's  close-shut  lips. 
She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  work.  In  her  hurry  red  dots 
began  to  mark  her  way. 

The  measured  tread  overhead  changed  into  a  series  of 
quick  thuds,  jerky,  heavy. 

Audrey's  imagination  saw  vividly  a  vision  of  Amelia 
amiably  hopping,  and  a  quick  laugh  broke  from  her. 

It  was  such  a  babyish  little  laugh  that  it  accentuated 
pathetically  the  strenuous  gravity  that  followed  it. 

Bang!  It  was  the  soap-dish  again.  Fortunately  the 
soap-dish  was  thick  and  solid. 

Audrey  worked  at  her  hem. 

After  a  little  while  more  indefatigible  hops.  Almost  the 
Bogey  behind  the  grandfather's  clock  was  forgotten.  The 
vision  of  Amelia  in  her  red  dressing-gown  and  curl-rags 
was  full  of  comfort  and  very  mirth-provoking,  and  Bogeys 
hate  laughter. 

Later  there  was  one  last  burst  of  energetic  dancing,  and 
after  that  only  an  occasional  dropping  of  the  soap-dish. 
Audrey  understood  that  Amelia  was  in  bed.  The  fear 
that  she  would  fall  asleep  set  her  heart  beating  rapidly, 
and  drove  the  needle  in  and  out  with  a  recklessness  that 
resulted  in  somewhat  crooked  stitches  and  a  prolificacy  of 
red  dots.  Her  lips  moved  now  as  she  worked : 

"Please,  Almighty  God,  don't  let  Amelia  go  to  sleep! 
Please,  Almighty  God,  don't  let  Amelia  go  to  sleep!" 

At  last  the  hem  was  finished. 

Then  came  the  awful  moment  when  the  lamp  had  to  be 
put  out,  and  the  darkness  of  stairs  and  passages  to  be  faced 
alone.  As  she  extinguished  the  light  there  came  from 
overhead  a  feeble  and  perfunctory  bang,  followed  by  a 
roll.  Amelia  was  sleepy,  and  the  soap-dish  had  rolled 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

across  the  room.  Audrey  realized  that  it  was  the  last  bang. 
A  warm  rush  of  gratitude  helped  her  up  the  stairs.  Out- 
side her  door  she  fought  a  small  battle — the  gratitude  was 
still  warm  and  it  defeated  fear.  She  scuttled  along  to 
Amelia's  room,  put  her  lips  to  the  key-hole. 

"Thank  you,  dear  Amelia!" 

From  within  came  a  muffled  scream. 

"Lord  save  us!  You've  given  me  palpitations!  I  al- 
ways was  timid.  Run  away,  dearie.  She'll  hear  us!" 

"All  right,  but— I  do  love  you,  Amelia!" 


CHAPTER  II 

WHEN  Audrey  was  ten  years  old  two  things  happened 
in  her  life.  The  first  thing  happened  on  a  certain 
wild  evening  in  April.  Audrey  hated  storms.  The  atmos- 
phere within  the  gray  cottage  when  a  storm  raged  without 
set  her  sensitive  nerves  jarring:  vaguely  she  felt  that  there 
were  many  things  she  did  not  understand  going  on  in  com- 
pany with  the  howling  of  the  wind  and  the  pattering  of  the 
rain.  But  after  that  April  evening  she  never  had  quite 
the  same  feeling  about  storms.  For  the  storm  that  night 
brought  her  Marcia  Barrington. 

A  staid  little  figure  with  head  down-bent,  Audrey  sat 
and  studied  geographical  facts  about  the  world  in  which 
she  lived.  She  was  alone,  but  from  the  kitchen  came  the 
welcome  if  melancholy  strains  of  a  hymn  sung  in  Amelia's 
flat  voice. 

"A  pen-in-su-la  is  a  piece  of  land  almost  entirely  sur- 
rounded with  water,"  said  Audrey.  She  glanced  towards 
the  window,  against  which  the  rain  was  dashing  in  a  steady 
downpour.  "This  house  will  soon  be  a  pen-pen-in-su-la." 
She  fell  into  a  dream  in  which  they  were  prisoners  in  the 
house  till  a  Prince  Charming  brought  a  gondola.  .  .  . 

The  door-bell  was  pealing  through  the  house!  Audrey's 
geography  book  fell  unheeded  to  the  floor.  No  one  ever 
rang — no  one  ever  came — 

Something  had  happened! 

15 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Voices — a  voice  that  seized  at  once  on  the  child's  heart: 
she  had  never  heard  anything  the  least  like  it  before. 
What  was  it  saying?  ...  "So  sorry  .  .  ,  horse  so  terribly 
lame  ...  if  I  can  wait  here  .  .  ." 

So  soft — so  slow — so  beautiful — 

Then  the  soft  swish,  swish  of  silk  that  was  new  to 
Audrey,  and  the  door  opened  and  Marcia  came  in. 

"  Is  this  your  little  girl  ?  Are  you  learning  your  lessons, 
little  one  ?" 

Why  couldn't  she  answer  ?  Dumb,  she  stood  there,  all 
her  sensitive,  impressionable,  starved  nature  afire. 

"What  a  night!" 

The  speaker  sank  into  a  chair  and  flung  open  her  cloak. 

Audrey  had  a  glimpse  of  soft,  light  draperies. 

"Audrey,  take  your  book  into  the  kitchen." 

There  was  a  new  sternness  in  her  mother's  voice. 
Audrey  bent  to  pick  up  the  forgotten  book,  but  Marcia 
Barrington  interposed. 

"Don't  send  her  away.  Come  here,  sweet,  and  let  me 
look  at  you." 

"Little  one" — "sweet" — Audrey's  pulses  danced  with 
joy;  never  had  she  heard  such  honeyed  tones  addressed 
to  her  before.  She  came  slowly,  her  feet  weighted  with 
her  shyness,  and  stood  looking  down;  something  lay  on 
her  lids,  she  could  not  raise  them. 

A  few  yards  away  Susan  stood  looking  on. 

"So  you  are  called  Audrey?  Well,  it  is  one  of  my 
favorite  names.  Is  that  a  geography  book  ?  I  wonder 
will  it  tell  us  how  far  the  Hall  is  from  here  ?  Will  my 
poor  husband  be  quite  drowned  before  he  gets  there,  do 
you  know,  Audrey  ?  I  do  believe  he  was  glad  the  poor 
horse  went  lame,  since  it  decided  me  to  leave  the  cart! 

16 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

But  he  could  not  be  so  cruel,  could  he  ?  All  the  way  from 
Fordingham  have  we  come  in  a  dog-cart,  sweet!  And  yet 
I  am  not  so  very  wet,  am  I  ?" 

One  swift,  upward  glance  in  which  the  child  saw  wet, 
gold  hair.  .  .  . 

"I  wonder  do  you  dislike  kissing,  Audrey?  Or  would 
you  give  me  one  little  kiss —  ?" 

"We  don't  believe  in  such  foolishness  in  this  house!" 

Susan's  interruption  came  harshly. 

A  wave  of  scarlet  agony  swept  over  Audrey.  Her  beau- 
tiful lady  had  been  insulted!  Never  would  she  speak  to 
her  again. 

A  little  musical  laugh — 

"Foolishness,  do  you  call  it?  Ah,  well,  it  all  depends 
on  the  point  of  view.  I  am  afraid  I  am  making  a  pool  on 
your  carpet — " 

"It  isn't  carpet,  it's  linoleum,  and  won't  hurt." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  The  water  runs  off  my  cloak,  you  see — 
it's  rain-proof.  Audrey,  what  is  my  hat  like  ?" 

Another  upward  glance — to  meet  beautiful,  smiling  eyes 
this  time — a  glimpse  of  a  wonderful  face — 

"Audrey,  take  your  book  to  the  kitchen!" 

But  Audrey's  feet  seemed  glued  to  the  floor. 

And  again  came  the  soft  pleading. 

"  Must  she  go  ?  Come,  we  will  learn  the  lesson  together. 
I  am  afraid  my  geographical  knowledge  is  quite  shocking; 
it  will  be  good  for  me,  too — " 

"Audrey,  didn't  you  hear  what  I  said  ?" 

"Yes,  Mother,  but" — a  pause,  a  gasp,  and  out  it  came, 
almost  a  defiance — "I  don't  want  to  go!" 

Then  with  the  harsh  "Go  at  once"  softening  it,  mak- 
ing it  bearable,  was  the  warmth  of  arms  about  her,  a  kiss, 

17 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

a  soft  little  "Your  mother  wishes  it,  dear,"  and  Audrey 
found  herself  moving  towards  the  door. 

In  the  kitchen  Amelia  talked:  vaguely  Audrey  heard, 
but  her  mind  was  dreaming. 

"Home  from  their  honeymoon — luggage  sent  on.  Dog- 
cart on  an  evening  like  this,  to  be  sure!  Any  one  could 
see  that  that  sunset  meant  a  storm.  He's  a  fine  man. 
It's  a  good  two  miles  to  the  Hall.  .  .  ." 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  Audrey  said,  seriously. 

Amelia  arranged  some  plates  on  the  dresser  with  a  cer- 
tain aggressiveness. 

"It's  wonderful  what  a  difference  fine  clothes  make!" 
she  declared.  "Ah,  I  would  like  to  see  you  dressed  out 
as  you  ought  to  be — in  lace  and  silk!  You're  as  good  as 
she  is,  every  bit.  You're  not  exactly  pretty — you're  too 
pale;  but  you'd  look  different  dressed  properly."  She 
came  close  up  to  Audrey.  "Don't  you  ever  want  to  be 
dressed  in  pretty  things  ?"  she  asked,  confidentially. 

Slowly  the  red  crept  over  the  child's  face.  She  nodded. 
"But  it's  very  wicked,"  she  added. 

Amelia  tossed  her  head. 

"It's  only  natural,"  she  declared.     "Blood  will  out!" 

She  went  back  to  the  dresser.  Presently  she  looked 
round. 

"Your  father  was  a  gentleman,  you  know,"  she 
said.  "He  had  estates,  and  a  great  house  with  thirty- 
eight  rooms  in  it,  but  when  he  died  it  all  went  to  his 
cousin." 

Audrey  eyed  her  earnestly.  This  father  who  had  died 
when  she  was  a  baby  was  full  of  a  wonderful  interest  for 
her.  But  she  dared  not  ask  her  mother  questions. 

"Was — was  he  a  handsome  gentleman,  Amelia  ?" 

18 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Amelia  considered. 

"Well,  he  wasn't  what  you  might  call  handsome"  she 
said,  "but  he  was  that  good!  Oh,  he  was  a  religious 
gentleman!" 

A  tiny  sigh  escaped  Audrey's  lips.  It  was  strange  that 
such  wonderfully  good  parents  should  have  such  a  naughty 
little  girl,  she  thought. 

"Tell  me  some  more,  Amelia,"  she  besought. 

"Well,  this  was  how  he  met  your  mother.  He  sprained 
his  ankle  outside  the  farm  where  she  lived,  and  they  car- 
ried him  in,  and  she  nursed  him,  her  mother  being  dead. 
He  was  getting  on,  you  see,  and  so  was  she,  and  his  aunt, 
who'd  always  kept  house  for  him,  had  just  died,  and  they 
do  say  that  his  housekeeper  had  her  eye  on  him  and  wor- 
ried his  life  out;  and  your  mother's  a  famous  cook,  I  will 
say,  and  her  beef  tea's  not  to  be  beaten,  and — well,  that's 
how  it  was,  you  see,  dearie;  and  a  fine  thing  for  her,  I  must 
say,  though  pretty  hard  that  he  should  have — died  so  soon, 
and  all  the  estates  and  money  gone  to  his  cousin  except  a 
few  hundreds  a  year  and  this  house  which  your  mother 
had  once  told  him  she'd  like  to  live  in — "  Amelia  paused 
for  breath. 

Audrey  sat  with  a  puzzled  little  frown  of  dissatisfaction 
on  her  brow.  Somehow  the  story  as  told  by  Amelia  did 
not  sound  particularly  attractive;  it  lacked  romance.  But 
in  a  minute  the  child's  quick  imagination  was  busy  "filling 
in."  She  saw  a  big  man,  sick,  like  a  wounded  hero,  in 
bed,  her  mother  bringing  dainties  to  his  couch — but  there 
there  came  a  halt.  Here  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  de- 
manded that  long  golden  curls  should  hang  around  her 
mother's  face,  that  her  little  hands  should  be  white  as 
snow.  .  .  .  Ruthlessly  before  her  eyes  rose  a  vision  of  her 

19 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

mother  .  .  .  and  her  hair  .  .  .  and  her  hands  were  brown. 
She  sighed. 

"Tell  me  some  more,  Amelia,"  she  urged. 

But  Amelia's  rare  communicativeness  had  sunk  into  a 
sudden  sulkiness,  with  which  the  child  was  only  too 
familiar. 

"Don't  you  bother  me  so.  Get  along  with  your  les- 
sons!" she  said. 

Audrey  obediently  opened  her  book. 

"A  pen-in-su-la  is  a  piece  of  land  .  .  ." 

Presently  her  mother  came  into  the  kitchen  to  fetch  her 
visitor  a  glass  of  milk. 

"Audrey,"  she  said,  "go  to  bed  now." 

The  child  glanced  up  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf: 
it  was  half  an  hour  earlier  than  her  usual  time  for  bed. 
She  slipped  slowly  to  the  floor:  the  visions  in  which  she 
had  been  indulging — visions  of  good-byes  between  her  and 
the  beautiful  visitor  —  crumbled  about  her.  For  the 
second  time  that  night  she  essayed  the  hitherto  unat- 
tempted  feat  of  putting  her  will  against  her  mother's. 
It  was  a  pitiful  little  attempt  enough,  but  it  was  signifi- 
cant to  Susan. 

"I — I  needn't  go  for  half  an  hour  more,  Mother." 

"You  will  go  when  you  are  ordered,  Audrey." 

Susan  poured  the  milk  into  a  tumbler.  Audrey  stood 
by  her  chair  watching.  Then  she  spoke. 

"It — isn't — my  bedtime,"  she  said. 

Susan  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

The  child  flushed  and  began  to  move  unwillingly  towards 
the  door. 

"Your  bedtime  is  whatever  hour  I  tell  you  to  go  to 
bed,"  Susan  said. 

20 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

The  little  old-fashioned  figure  reached  the  door,  and 
passed  out. 

"Audrey!" 

She  turned  and  came  back.  With  the  unquenchable 
hope  of  childhood  she  wondered  had  her  mother  changed 
her  mind.  It  was  a  thing  that  would  have  been  absolutely 
unparalleled  in  the  child's  experience,  but  the  face  that  she 
turned  to  Susan  was  alight  with  tremulous  hope.  For  a 
minute  Susan  stood  looking  at  her;  then  her  voice  said,  in 
measured  accents: 

"You  did  not  bid  Amelia  or  me  good-night,  Audrey." 

All  the  light  was  quenched  in  the  child's  face;  tears 
clouded  the  eager  eyes. 

"Good-night,  M-Mother.     G-good-night,  A-Amelia." 

A  little  later  Audrey,  sitting  up  in  bed,  heard  the  vis- 
itor go. 

Then  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

An  hour  or  so  later  something  woke  her.  She  lay  quite 
still,  waves  of  hot  terror  passing  over  her.  Something  was 
in  her  room.  She  could  feel  it.  She  had  heard  it.  Then 
the  moon  sailed  through  clouds  and  gently  showed  her 
that  it  was  her  mother  kneeling  there  beside  her  bed. 
Audrey's  eyes  kept  wide:  the  terror  was  gone,  but  surprise 
was  keen. 

"Mother!"  she  said,  in  a  funny  little  voice. 

"Did  I  wake  you  ?     There,  go  to  sleep  again,  Audrey." 

She  found  herself  suddenly  clasped  tightly  in  her 
mother's  arms — so  tightly  that  she  could  hardly  breathe. 
Her  mother's  voice,  all  hoarse  and  queer,  was  speaking 
to  her,  her  face  pressed  close  to  hers. 

"You  don't  love  her  better  than  me,  Audrey?  .  .  .  Just 
because  she's  beautiful,  and  wears  beautiful  clothes.  .  .  . 

21 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

You  do  love  me,  Audrey.  .  .  .  I'm  your  mother  .  .  .  you 
don't  care  about  pretty  clothes  .  .  .  and  wicked  things 
like  that.  ...  I  never  did  .  .  .  and  your  father  never  did. 
.  .  .  It's  only  because  you're  so  young  .  .  .  that's  all.  .  .  . 
You're  good,  really.  .  .  .  You're  like  us,  and  so  you'll  hate 
worldly  adornments  as  I  do.  ...  Yes,  you  will.  .  .  .  Audrey, 
why  did  you  look  at  her  so  ?  ...  She  speaks  softly,  but  it 
doesn't  mean  anything — Audrey,  you  don't  love  her  more 
than  your  own  mother,  darling  ?  .  .  ." 

Audrey,  hot,  half-smothered,  her  heart  beating  rapidly, 
her  mind  a  whirl  of  wonder,  was  filled  with  a  passionate 
joy:  her  loneliness  seemed  suddenly  a  thing  hideous  and 
done  with. 

"I  love  you  more'n  the  whole  world,  Mother!" 

Her  mother's  arms  relaxed  about  her.  She  kissed  her 
gently. 

"I  am  sorry  I  woke  you,  dear.  Now  go  to  sleep,"  she 
said,  quietly. 

The  moon  showed  the  brown  little  furrowed  face  oddly 
softened;  the  lines  of  worry  and  anxiety  seemed  wiped 
out;  new  lines  of  tenderness  seemed  to  have  taken  their 
place. 

When  Audrey  woke  the  next  morning  she  was  jubi- 
lantly convinced  that  all  the  world  was  different  now. 
She  dressed  to  a  joyous  song  within  her — a  song  where  a 
tender  mother  reigned:  a  mother  who  kissed  and  petted 
her.  .  .  .  Somehow  the  want  of  golden  ringlets  and  white 
hands  did  not  seem  to  matter  now.  .  .  .  With  a  child's 
unquestioning  faith  she  joyfully  welcomed  the  new  con- 
dition of  things.  She  went  down-stairs,  her  pulses  dan- 
cing, her  heart  beating  with  anticipation.  With  a  sudden 
odd  little  shyness  she  turned  when  she  reached  the  hall, 

22 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

and  ran  into  the  garden,  away  from  the  kitchen,  where 
she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  mother's  skirt. 

The  garden  was  small,  and  wore  an  air  of  sadness,  owing 
to  neglect.  No  flowers  flourished  there;  the  only  part 
cultivated  at  all  was  given  up  entirely  to  vegetables.  To 
Susan,  flowers  were  one  of  the  "fripperies"  of  life:  she 
classed  beneath  the  same  heading  many  other  beautiful 
things,  such  as  music,  art,  and  literature. 

But  on  this  morning  in  early  April  even  that  sad  little 
garden  was  full  of  beauties.  The  scent  that  rose  from 

O 

wet  mould  and  grass  exhilarated  Audrey:  the  new  little 
leaves  and  buds  on  the  trees  were  all  wet  and  fresh;  they 
shook  down  rain-drops  upon  her  as  she  passed  beneath. 
The  long  grass  made  her  shoes  wet,  dew-drops  sparkled 
like  diamonds  everywhere.  Something  compelled  her  to 
deck  herself  with  a  nosegay.  She  had  never  done  such  a 
thing  before;  but,  then,  wasn't  everything  changed  now? 
With  a  gayety  somewhat  tremulous  at  its  own  daring,  she 
made  a  bouquet  of  parsley  and  a  few  strands  of  the  long 
grass,  and  fixed  it  into  the  front  of  her  frock.  Then  she 
went  into  the  house.  She  went  slowly,  because  the  bou- 
quet and  the  circumstances  made  her  fell  shy,  but  her 
face  shone  with  joyous  anticipation. 

Shyly  she  stood  in  the  kitchen  door,  hesitating.  .  .  . 

Her  mother  was  at  the  table  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

She  looked  round. 

"Good-morning.  What  is  that  you  have  in  your  dress  ? 
Flowers!  Go  and  take  them  off  at  once.  You  are  a  very 
vain  child  to  deck  yourself  out  so!" 

Audrey  went  slowly. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  DEMURE  figure  in  scanty  gray  frock,  her  head 
l\  crowned  with  a  hideous  little  black  straw  hat,  Audrey 
sat  in  church.  This  was  when  the  second  thing  hap- 
pened. 

It  was  several  weeks  since  the  first  thing  had  occurred. 
Audrey  had  seen  no  more  of  Marcia  Barrington.  The 
Hall,  although  in  another  parish,  was  only  about  two  miles 
from  the  gray  cottage,  but  Audrey's  walks  with  her  mother 
never  extended  far. 

Now  she  sat  in  church,  and  reflected  sadly  that  she  was 
a  very  miserable  sinner.  For  through  a  window  she  could 
see  the  pink-clad  boughs  of  a  may-tree  waving  in  the 
breeze.  On  one  of  the  branches  a  thrush  was  perched, 
and  he  was  singing  and  singing — right  into  the  church 
his  sweet,  impudent  voice  penetrated.  Audrey  tried  not 
to  hear;  she  tried  not  to  see —  What  a  miserable  sinner 
she  was!  The  proper  places  for  one's  eyes  in  church  were 
book,  preacher,  or  folded  hands.  Ears  should  hear  only 
the  preacher's  voice.  Why  was  she  so  wicked,  when  her 
mother  was  so  good  ?  Oh,  dear,  how  funny  she  did  feel 
inside!  Why  couldn't  her  hands  lie  still  in  her  lap? 
Why  did  her  feet  go  mad  if  she  didn't  move  them — just 
ever  so  little  ?  .  .  .  The  thrush  was  singing  about  his  nest, 
which  was  built  in  among  all  the  pink  may,  and  none  of 
the  baby  thrushes  ever  went  to  church.  .  .  .  "My  friends, 

24 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

in  those  days  God  appeared  to  His  people" — oh,  how 
wicked  she  was!  She  wished  the  thrush  would  go  away. 
When  her  mother  was  a  little  girl  she  never  listened  to 
birds  singing  when  she  was  in  church;  she  never  tried  to 
smell  the  may.  .  .  .  "Please  God,  make  me  good.".  .  . 
Even  before  she  was  in  church  she  had  been  naughty: 
walking  beside  her  mother  she  had  wanted  to  run  and 
skip,  and  you  mustn't  run  and  skip  on  Sunday.  .  .  .  "Oh, 
please  God  Almighty,  don't  let  me  smell  the  may." 

"Audrey,  don't  fidget!" 

It  was  her  mother's  whisper  in  her  ear.  Scarlet,  Audrey 
stiffened  legs  and  arms,  and  fixed  her  eyes  strenuously  upon 
the  rector. 

The  Rev.  Arthur  Shirley  was  a  rotund  little  man; 
everything  about  him  was  round:  his  bald  head  was 
round;  his  face,  his  figure,  his  legs — all  were  round.  But 
he  was  possessed  also  of  an  impressive  manner  that  some 
people  dubbed  pomposity.  His  mouth  was  round,  too, 
like  a  baby's,  and  Audrey  found  her  depraved  mind  won- 
dering if  a  cherry  would  fill  the  round —  She  had  resort 
to  the  text:  always,  at  dinner,  she  had  to  repeat  the  text 
to  her  mother. 

"Psalm  Ninety-seven,  ninth  verse.  'For  Thou,  Lord, 
art  high  above  all  the  earth  in  a  may-tree — ' ' 

She  drew  up  with  a  gasp  of  horror.  Never  had  she  been 
quite  so  wicked  before.  Tears  crept  to  her  eyes.  She 
really  did  not  dare  to  ask  God  to  forgive  her. 

She  tried  to  repeat  the  text  correctly: 

"For  Thou,  Lord,  art  high  above  all  the  earth:  Thou 
art  exalted — exalted — thou  art  exalted — thou  art  exalt- 
ed—"' 

A  bluebottle  buzzed  in  her  ear;  her  eyes  followed  it  as  it 

25 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

flew  away,  then  decorously  fixed  themselves  once  more  on 
the  rector. 

Gaily  the  bluebottle  came  along;  no  reverence  had  he 
for  the  church;  he  buzzed  jauntily  round  the  bald  round 
head  of  the  portly  little  rector.  Audrey  watched,  fascina- 
ted. The  bluebottle  settled  on  the  very  apex:  the  rector, 
in  the  middle  of  an  impressive  rhetorical  effort,  raised  his 
arm  and  brushed  the  bluebottle  away.  But  it  came  back; 
it  settled  again  in  the  very  middle  of  the  bald  spot  on  the 
borders  of  the  dozen  long  hairs  that  the  rector  arranged 
with  so  much  care  to  lie  across  his  head  from  left  to  right, 
and  so  soften  the  outline  of  his  baldness.  Three  times  the 
rector  repelled  the  attack,  but  the  fourth  time  the  blue-bot- 
tle returned  fresh  and  unabashed.  Once  more  the  aveng- 
ing arm  swept  upward.  "Er — in  those  days  the  Lord 
God  Almighty  showed  Himself  a  God  of  war  and — "  Up 
went  the  arm;  the  lunge  was  wilder  this  time,  the  rector's 
countenance  was  unduly  flushed,  and  when  once  more 
his  arm  descended  to  his  side,  the  dozen  long  hairs  hung 
in  limp  disarray  over  his  left  ear,  and  exposed  the  fact  of 
his  baldness,  unsoftened  and  unshadowed  to  the  light  of 
the  day. 

Up  into  Audrey's  throat  a  wild  giggle  rose :  terrified,  she 
swallowed  it,  and  fixed  her  eyes  desperately  upon  the  hands 
folded  so  meekly  in  her  lap.  Throughout  the  battle  be- 
tween the  rector  and  the  bluebottle  she  had  felt  an  un- 
righteous stirring  within  her.  She  dared  not  look  towards 
the  pulpit:  the  laugh  was  waiting  there  in  her  throat. 
She  swallowed  again  agonizedly;  she  lifted  her  eyes  in- 
tuitively in  search  of  something  to  steady  her.  They  fell 
suddenly  upon  a  fair  head  shining  gold  in  a  shaft  of  sun- 
light. The  owner  of  the  head  was  a  broad-shouldered 

26 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

youth  of  about  sixteen  or  seventeen.  He  sat  a  little  in 
front  of  her,  to  the  right.  She  drew  in  a  deep  breath 
of  admiration  and  awe.  What  would  he  think  of  her  if 
he  knew  that  she  had  nearly  laughed  in  church  ?  The 
clear-cut  profile  turned  her  way  was  full  of  gravity  and 
thought;  the  brown  eyelashes  were  lifted  in  an  upward 
sweep.  Audrey  felt  her  wickedness  dying  beneath  the 
influence  of  this  young  saint,  who  was  so  different  from 
any  one  she  had  ever  seen — who  stirred  something  within 
her 

A  deep  abasement  seized  upon  her  poor  little  soul :  how 
immeasurably  she  was  beneath  him!  What  would  he 
think —  ?  The  clear-cut  profile  moved  a  little,  turned  tow- 
ards her.  At  that  moment  the  indefatigable  bluebottle 
returned  to  the  attack — the  rector  made  a  fierce  and  un- 
dignified lunge — one  long  hair  swung  out  .  .  . 

Audrey's  gaze  leaped  back  desperately  to  the  saintly 
youth's  profile.  It  turned  more  towards  her — a  gay  blue 
eye  came  round  and  met  hers — an  eye  of  irresistible  hu- 
mor— and — through  the  church  rang  out  a  shrill  little 
childish  laugh!  It  was  smothered  almost  directly;  it 
ended  abruptly  in  a  trembling  choke,  but  every  one  had 
heard  it.  She  had  done  the  unpardonable  thing:  she 
had  laughed  in  church. 

Scarlet,  abashed,  prepared  for  the  end  of  the  world  to 
come  upon  her,  she  felt  her  mother  turn  to  her,  she  heard 
the  awful  pause  in  the  rector's  sermon.  .  .  .  Then  his 
voice  resumed  its  discourse;  her  mother  sat  stiff  and  still. 

She  blinked  away  hot  tears  of  shame,  then  ventured 
a  peep  at  the  boy  who  had  really  worked  all  the  mischief. 
Would  he  be  terribly  shocked  ?  Very  terribly  shocked  ? 

As  if  he  felt  her  eyes  upon  him,  he  turned  and  looked 

3  27 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

at  her.  His  head  was  down-bent,  his  eyebrows  were  up, 
his  mouth  pursed,  and  slowly  he  shook  his  head  at  her, 
then  turned  away  again.  Audrey,  demure  in  her  seat,  was 
swept  along  upon  a  sudden  warm  flood  of  happiness.  So 
warm  was  it  that  it  melted,  for  the  time  being,  the  fear 
and  terror  that  held  her  in  its  chill  grip.  She  forgot  to 
look  at  the  pulpit;  she  forgot  to  look  at  her  folded  hands; 
her  eyes,  full  of  a  rapt  admiration,  never  wavered  from  their 
study  of  the  bad  young  man's  good-looking  profile.  .  .  . 

Shut  up  in  her  little  bedroom  throughout  the  long  after- 
noon, Audrey  wrestled  with  the  following: 

"The  first  requisite  in  religion  is  seriousness.  No  im- 
pression can  be  made  without  it.  An  orderly  life,  so  far 
as  others  are  able  to  observe,  is  now  and  then  produced 
by  prudential  motives  or  by  dint  of  habit;  but,  without 
seriousness,  there  can  be  no  religious  principle  at  the 
foundation,  no  course  of  conduct  flowing  from  religious 
motives:  in  a  word,  there  can  be  no  religion.  This  can- 
not exist  without  seriousness  upon  the  subject." 

Up  in  her  room  wrestled  Audrey. 

"The  first  reckysite  in  religion  is  ser'ousness  no  expres- 
sion can  be  made  without  it."  Like  a  sober  parrot  she 
repeated  it;  once  she  had  laboriously  spelled  it  out,  but 
between  her  and  the  book  rose  Prince  Charming's  face, 
gay  and  debonair;  little  enough  recked  he  of  any  serious- 
ness. Abashed  she  still  was,  ashamed  and  repentant, 
but  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  a  fellow-sinner. 
For  he,  too,  had  smiled,  and  he  had  not  turned  from  her 
in  disgust  at  her  wickedness.  .  .  .  "The  first  reckysite  in 
religion,"  murmured  Audrey,  dreamily.  The  book  of 
sermons  slipped  to  the  floor. 

28 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"'The  first  reckysite  .  .  .'  oh,  he's  very  beautiful — he's 
as  beautiful  as  the  Beautiful  Lady,  and  he  laughed  at  me. 
.  .  .  'The  first  reckysite  .  .  .'" 

Audrey  only  knew  one  fairy  story.  Her  mother  disap- 
proved of  fairy  tales.  But  once  when  she  had  been  ill 
Amelia  had  told  her  the  story  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 
Amelia's  imagination  was  as  limited  as  her  vocabulary, 
and  the  story,  as  presented  by  her  to  the  child,  was 
shorn  of  most  of  its  beauties.  But  Audrey's  imagination 
was  not  limited;  it  seized  with  avidity  on  the  meagre 
outline,  and  filled  in  with  unending  wealth  and  richness 
of  detail.  And  that  afternoon  the  Prince  Charming  who 
kissed  the  Sleeping  Beauty  into  life  was  ruthlessly  shorn 
of  his  sweeping  black  mustache,  shaved  of  his  curling 
ebony  locks,  and  emerged,  fair,  clean-shaven,  his  liquid 
dark  orbs  suddenly  grown  blue  and  gay. 

So  Audrey  dreamed. 

At  the  end  of  the  passage  a  door  shut  sharply  and  woke 
her.  AfFrightedly  she  picked  up  the  volume  of  sermons. 
All  in  a  parrot  whirl  of  flurry — 

"The  first  recksite  religion  is  ser'ous  no  expression  be 
made  without  it,' "  Audrey  gasped. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AJDREY  lay,  a  small,  gray  dab  on  the  grass,  and 
wept  bitter  tears  into  Taylor's  Primer.  Face  down- 
ward she  lay,  her  head  buried  in  the  musty  pages  of  the 
spelling-book,  whose  most  mysterious  intricacies  had  been 
conscientiously  mastered  by  her  mother  when  she  was  a 
little  girl.  Audrey's  dingy  skirt  was  scant  and  short,  and 
the  despairing  abandonment  of  her  legs  was  as  pathetic  as 
the  dejected  hang  of  the  two  ruddy-brown  pig-tails. 

"Well,  now,  I'm  sure  it  isn't  as  bad  as  all  that!" 

Audrey  jumped;  then  she  peeped;  then  she  sat  up  stiff 
and  straight. 

"Oh!"  gasped  she,  and  over  all  her  wet  face  a  flood  of 
rapturous  scarlet  swept. 

From  a  height  two  gay  blue  eyes  looked  down  upon  her. 

Behind  Prince  Charming  there  was  a  beautiful  chestnut 
mare;  the  sun  glinting  on  her  coat  made  it  shine  so  that 
Audrey  gasped  again. 

"Why,"  said  Prince  Charming,  "that's  much  better! 
What's  up  ?" 

Abashed  and  hot  silence. 

Down  he  sat  beside  her,  and  picked  up  the  damp  primer. 

"Oh,  spelling!"  he  said,  and  suddenly  she  laughed. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"Ah!  Now  I  remember!  You're  the  mad  little,  bad 
little  girl  who  tried  to  make  me  laugh  in  church!" 

3° 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Oh,  please  I— I  didn't  try — I  didn't  know — " 

"Your  name?" 

"Audrey." 

"Then,  Audrey,  listen.  I  won't  be  spoken  to  like  that. 
And,  Audrey,  if  you  dare  to  look  at  me  as  if  I'm  a  bogie- 
man,  I'll  turn  into  one  and  gobble  you  up.  Now,  do  you 
understand  ?  And  please,  Audrey,  would  you  mind  taking 
off  your  hat  ?" 

Eagerly  she  caught  at  the  tangible  part  of  his  speech, 
and  removed  the  hideous  little  black  hat. 

"Thanks,"  he  said.  "Now,  I'm  going  to  help  you 
with  your  spelling.  Is  this  the  column  ?  What's  the 
first  word  ?  Im-mac-u-late!  By  Jove,  what  a  scholar 
you  are!  Why,  it's  six  times  as  long  as  you,  pig-tails 
and  all!" 

"I — I'm  very  stupid,"  she  assured  him,  in  a  shamed 
voice,  "and  very  naughty." 

"That's  all  right,  then.  I  like  naughty  little  girls;  I 
can't  bear  good  little  girls." 

Her  eyes  grew  round  at  such  heresy.  Nevei  had  she 
encountered  anything  in  the  least  like  this  heterodoxical 
young  man.  But  his  heterodoxy  brought  a  certain  new 
and  warm  feeling  of  comradeship  to  her:  she  ventured 
shyly  one  little  wiggle  closer  to  his  side.  Then,  her  abso- 
lute honesty  impelling  an  unwilling  tongue,  she  amplified 
the  tale  of  her  stupidity. 

"When  I  remember  the  letters,  I — I  can't  remember  the 
words  they  belong  to." 

"Of  course  you  can't,"  he  responded,  cheerfully. 
"That's  because  you  don't  know  what  the  words  mean. 
Now,  'immaculate' — it's  a  nasty  word,  Audrey;  when  you 
speak  of  an  immaculate  person  you  mean  some  one  beastly 

31 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

— some  one  good  and  proper  and  respectable  and  every- 
thing they  should  be." 

Audrey's  eyes  were  growing  wider  and  wider. 

"Isn't  a  good  person  always  nice  ?"  she  queried. 

She  shrank  back  timidly  as  the  mare  approached. 
Prince  Charming  glanced  at  her. 

"That  matters,  kiddie!  You  may  be  as  naughty  as 
you  like,  but  you  mustn't  be  frightened  of  any  ani- 
mal. Now  get  up  and  stroke  her  nose.  She's  quite 
gentle." 

Red  but  valiant  she  obeyed. 

He  smiled  approvingly. 

"You're  rather  a  nice  little  kid,  do  you  know,  Audrey? 
Now,  come  along,  and  we'll  master  this  stupid  old  column. 
And  we'll  settle  the  difficulty  about  a  good  person's  being 
nice  by  sticking  a  'y '  onto  the  good.  Goody  persons  can't 
possibly  be  nice,  and  they're  always  immaculate.  Now, 
i-m — say  that,  Audrey." 

There  was  a  pause. 

Over  the  top  of  the  book  he  looked  at  her. 

"I'm  going!  I  won't  be  looked  at  like  that.  What  are 
you  frightened  of,  you  little  goose  ?" 

"You  see,  you — you  don't  know  how  very  stupid — " 

"Oh,  is  that  all  ?  I  hate  wise  little  girls.  When  I  tell 
you  to  say  'i-m,'  I  sha'n't  mind  a  bit  if  you  say'o-p.' 
Now,  hurry  up!" 

Lying  on  his  back,  his  gaitered  legs  outstretched,  Audrey 
bolt  upright  beside  him,  so  they  worked  through  the  column 
till  she  was  letter-perfect. 

"Stupid?  Not  you!  Why,  if  it  weren't  for  your  pig- 
tails I'd  be  frightened  of  such  a  learned  young  lady.  I 
bet  your  mother  doesn't  think  you're  stupid!" 

32 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Slowly  the  red  crept  over  her  face — over  her  thin  little 
neck. 

"Yes,  she  does,"  she  admitted,  shamedly. 

"Eh?     Does  she?" 

"Mother  is  such  a  very  clever  person,"  she  told  him, 
eagerly. 

He  switched  at  his  leg  thoughtfully,  sitting  up  and  look- 
ing at  her. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  secret,"  he  said.  "Come  closer." 
He  pulled  her  to  him  by  a  plait.  "Now,  I'm  jolly  near  be- 
ing a  grown-up  myself,  and  so  I  know  a  few  of  their  secrets, 
and  this  is  one  of  them :  they  have  an  idea  that  it's  good 
for  a  poor  little  un-grown-up  to  be  told  she's  stupid.  You 
see,  they're  so  very  grown-up — some  of  'em — that  they 
forget  all  about  when  they  were  young,  and  so  they  think 
that's  a  wise  way  to  make  her  learn.  See  ?  They  don't 
really  think  she's  stupid — oh,  yes,  I  know  you're  thinking: 
'Oh,  dear,  then  do  grown-ups  tell  fibs?'  But,  you  see, 
they  don't  reckon  that  kind  of  thing  a  fib  at  all.  It's  for 
your  good,  or  they  think  it  is,  but  I  don't,  and  you  don't. 
We  know  better,  and  if  ever  we  have  anything  to  do  with 
some  poor  little  un-grown-ups  we  won't  tell  them  they're 
stupid,  will  we  ?  Or  perhaps  I  may  sometimes,  because 
my  father  says  it  to  me;  but  then  he  says  it  in  a  sort  of  way 
— chucking  something  at  my  head  at  the  same  time,  you 
know — that  doesn't  worry  you  a  bit.  If  I  do  it  at  all  that's 
how  I'll  set  about  it." 

She  stared  at  him  appalled.  The  comfort  the  first  part 
of  his  speech  had  brought  to  her  was  lost  in  her  horror  at 
the  picture  called  up  by  his  last  words. 

"Oh!"  she  said.     "Is  your  father  very  wicked  ?" 

"Eh?  Wicked?  The  governor?"  He  gave  a  shout 
33 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

of  laughter.  "Why,  he's  the  best  old  governor  in  the 
world!  A  bit  obstinate  and  hot-tempered,  that's  all." 

"  But — but  what  do  you  do  when  he — he — throws  some- 
thing at  you  ?" 

"Catch  it,  and  tell  him  to  try  again." 

She  sat  silent.  She  was  learning  many  things  that  May 
morning.  Above  a  wall  to  the  right  a  great  bush  of  white 
lilac  stood  up  clear  against  the  blue  sky.  While  she 
thought  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  it:  always  afterwards  white 
lilac  brought  back  that  morning  with  the  glorious  sharp 
snap  in  the  air,  and  the  brilliant  sunshine  that  kept  you 
so  warm  while  you  sat  and  thought;  and  always  with  the 
picture  of  it  she  heard  the  rustle  and  munch  of  leaves 
which  Prince  Charming's  mare  made  in  the  dry  hedge 
close  by.  ... 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  go  home  now,"  she  said,  in  an  old- 
fashioned  little  way  that  expressed  nothing  of  the  despair 
which  she  felt  at  the  thought  of  parting  from  him. 

"  Eh  ?  Oh,  you  like  goodies  better  than  me,  do  you, 
Audrey  ?"  He  took  out  his  watch,  while  she  gazed  at  him, 
dumb,  with  hot  words  of  passionate  denial  seething  within. 

"By  Jove,  one  o'clock!  I  must  be  off  too,  or  they'll 
have  eaten  up  all  my  lunch,  won't  they  ?  Come  and  give 
me  a  kiss,  kiddie." 

She  moved  shyly  to  him,  and  gave  his  ear  a  timid  little 
kiss.  He  put  up  his  hand  and  rubbed  the  ear  vigorously. 

"Ugh!  Ugh,  Audrey!  It  was  a  beastly  peck!  A  Sun- 
day-school peck!" 

She  flushed  hotly. 

"I'm  very  sorry.  You  see,  I'm  not  very  used  to  kiss- 
ing," she  explained,  abashed.  "I  have  to  be  very  care- 

34 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

ful  with  Amelia,  because  she  doesn't  like  her  curls  to  be 
disarranged." 

"I  don't  mind  my  curls  being  disarranged  a  bit,"  he  de- 
clared, cheerfully.  "Who's  Amelia?" 

She  gave  a  sudden  childish  little  laugh,  her  eyes  on  his 
close-cropped  head. 

"You  are  very  witty,"  she  said. 

His  eyes  twinkled. 

"Who's  Amelia?" 

"She's  a  poor  relation." 

"Good  Lord!     Poor  Amelia!" 

"She  told  me  once  that  she  isn't  a  relation  of  mine,  only 
of  my  mother's.  She  is  very  kind." 

"Now,  give  me  a  proper  kiss,  Audrey!" 

She  stood  hesitating,  afraid  that  he  might  disapprove 
again  of  her  salute.  He  sat  smiling  at  her. 

Suddenly  she  made  a  little  run  at  him,  and  flung  her 
arms  round  his  neck. 

"Oh,  please — oh,  please — !" 

"Now,  that  was  a  good  old  genuine  hug!  What  was 
the  'please'  for?" 

But  she  hung  her  head  shyly. 

"I'm  very  assuming,"  she  declared,  in  a  small  voice. 

"Ask  for  anything  but  my  mare  and  my  tie,  Audrey, 
and  I  promise  not  to  think  you  'very  assuming.'" 

But  said  Audrey,  sedately: 

"Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

She  walked  away. 

A  few  yards  on  a  voice  close  behind  her  exclaimed: 

"I'm  sure,  by  the  hang  of  the  pig-tails,  she's  weep- 
ing." 

35 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

A  pair  of  hands  clasped  her  thin  little  body  and  swung 
her  high. 

"Why,  it's  a  veritable  Niobe!  Now,  Niobe,  how  about 
that  'please,  oh,  please'?" 

"It  was  only — only — oh!  won't  I  ever  see  you  again?" 


CHAPTER  V 

"  AMELIA,  did  you  ever  meet  a  Prince  Charming  ?" 
f\  Audrey  spoke  in  a  whisper  fraught  with  much 
meaning.  She  sat  at  the  kitchen  table  on  a  wooden  chair, 
a  bowl  of  water,  a  tray,  and  a  bundle  of  rhubarb  before  her. 
On  her  arm  she  held  a  clean  towel.  The  firelight  shone 
on  her  hair,  picking  out  gleams  of  red-gold  in  the  brown. 
Her  face,  alight  with  eager  interest,  was  turned  to  Amelia, 
who  was  darning  stockings. 

"Did  you,  Amelia?" 

She  held  a  stick  of  rhubarb  suspended  while  she  awaited 
Amelia's  answer. 

Amelia  gave  a  foolish  simper. 

"I  was  greatly  admired  by  the  gentlemen  when  I  was  a 
girl,"  she  said. 

The  lamp  was  placed  close  beside  her  on  the  table;  its 
light  shone  mercilessly  on  her  long  face. 

Audrey  studied  her  earnestly. 

"Was  it  your  curls,  Amelia  ?" 

Amelia  tossed  her  head. 

"They  have  always  been  much  admired." 

Audrey  wiped  the  stick  of  rhubarb  with  the  towel. 

"Did  Prince  Charming  ever  come  and  kiss  you,  like  the 
one  in  the  story,  Amelia  ?" 

Amelia  emitted  a  little  scream. 

"Oh,  how  shocking,  Audrey!  Suppose  your  mother 
37 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

was  to  come  home  and  hear  you.  And  her  so  particular — 
never  making  allowances  for  any  one.  She'd  never  under- 
stand a  sensitive  nature  like  mine,  not  if  she  was  to  live 
to  be  a  hundred." 

Audrey  rubbed  sticks  with  laborious  care. 

"She  is  a  very  good  lady,"  she  said,  staidly. 

The  dignity  in  the  funny  little  old-fashioned  words 
silenced  Amelia,  as  it  had  silenced  her  before  on  the  same 
subject.  Amelia  was  naturally  spiteful,  naturally  petty; 
and  whereas  Audrey  never  heard  her  mother  utter  a  word 
against  Amelia,  in  spite  of  the  evident  lack  of  any  affection 
or  sympathy  between  them,  Amelia  was  always  ready  to 
put  in  a  spiteful  word  about  Susan. 

Audrey  picked  up  the  knife,  and  began  to  cut  the  rhu- 
barb into  lengths  of  about  two  inches.  She  took  great 
care  to  cut  each  piece  the  same  length. 

"I  went  to  a  party  once  where  there  were  fifty  people," 
Amelia  said,  reminiscently. 

"Oh,  Amelia,  do  tell  me!     Oh,  please,  Amelia!" 

"I  wore  a  pink  silk  dress  trimmed  with  white  lace,  and 
mittens  and  white  shoes  and  stockings,  and  red  roses  in 
my  hair  and  a  spray  on  my  shoulder.  And  my  cheeks 
were  as  red  as  those  roses,  with  the  compliments  I  got  from 
the  gentlemen,  dearie!  I  wouldn't  like  to  say  how  many 
remarked  on  it.  And  there  was  one  gentleman — he  had 
beautiful  black  whiskers,  and  I  remember  as  if  it  was  yes- 
terday how  poetical  he  was.  He  whispered  in  my  ear, '  Red 
as  a  rose  is  she!'  Oh  yes,  I  was  a  belle  in  those  days!" 

"Tell  me  more,  Amelia!" 

Amelia  sniffed  over  her  darning  for  a  minute  or  two;  then 
she  looked  up  over  her  misty  spectacles  at  the  eager  face 
bent  towards  her. 

38 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"The  same  gentleman" — she  giggled  behind  a  modest 
hand — "well,  we  got  lively,  you  know,  and  he  pulled  one 
of  my  curls,  and  I  boxed  his  ear!" 

"Oh,  Ame— lia!" 

Audrey  studied  her  face  earnestly:  she  strove  to  picture 
an  uncrushed,  pink-clad  Amelia  possessing  spirit  sufficient 
to  box  a  gentleman's  ear — a  black-whiskered  gentleman, 
moreover. 

"I  would  love  to  see  you  all  beautiful  in  a  pink  silk 
dress,"  she  sighed. 

"It's  gone,  dearie,  long  ago.  Susan  doesn't  hold  with 
such  things.  Now,  my  mother  was  very  different.  Ar- 
tistic she  was,  and  all  for  beautiful  things." 

Audrey  drew  a  deep  breath. 

Amelia's  sharp  nose  was  rapidly  growing  red:  she 
blinked  her  eyelids  and  sniffed. 

"You  should  have  seen  the  beautiful  wax  flowers  and 
fruit  we  had  in  the  parlor,  dearie!  Three  separate  groups 
under  glass  shades." 

"How  beautiful,  Amelia!" 

"And  pictures  on  the  walls  in  gold  frames,  a  dozen  of 
them — real  good  pictures,  that  cost  a  lot  of  money.  A 
pound  she  gave  for  the  dozen,  dearie — a  whole  pound! 
That  was  what  she  was  like — so  artistic." 

"  Did — did  you  have  flowers  in  the  garden,  Amelia  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  dearie,  lots  of  them!" 

"  Might  you  pick  them,  Amelia  ?" 

"Bless  you,  yes!" 

Audrey's  pale  little  face  had  grown  very  wistful. 

"  Did  your  mother  love  you  very  much,  Amelia  ?" 

"She  was  a  good  mother,  dearie,"  snuffed  Amelia.  "I 
spent  all  my  savings  on  extra  bands  of  crape  when  she  died, 

39 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

and  never  grudged  it.  And  such  a  funeral  she  had!  She'd 
saved  a  good  bit  in  her  time,  and  she  left  it  in  her  will  that 
it  was  to  be  spent  on  her  funeral.  Four  horses  to  the 
hearse!  And  three  carriages  to  follow!  And  the  plumes 
and  the  velvet  hangings!  And  the  flowers!  It  was  a 
beautiful  sight!  And  the  refreshments  after!  She'd  left 
directions  what  to  have — she  hadn't  forgotten  a  thing! 
Port  wine  we  had  too!  Five  handkerchiefs  I  used  that 
day!  Ah,  I  shall  never  forget  it!  Never!" 

The  deep  regret  in  her  tone  testified  to  a  wish  that  that 
glorious  day  might  come  again. 

"Tell  me  more,  Amelia!"  came  the  eager  voice.  "Oh, 
you've  never  been  so  nice  before." 

"It's  all  through  seeing  that  handsome  young  gentleman 
to-day,  dearie!  And  the  polite  way  he  raised  his  hat  and 
spoke  to  me!  It  stirred  my  heart.  He's  a  real  gentle- 
man!" 

A  proud  flush  had  risen  to  Audrey's  face. 

"He  is  a  great  friend  of  mine,"  she  said,  with  a  ridicu- 
lous little  air  of  pomposity. 

"Ah,  well — "  Amelia  began,  and  stopped  there. 

"What,  Amelia?" 

"Nothing!    You  hurry  up  with  that  rhubarb,  Audrey!" 

Audrey  started  cutting  again:  silence  reigned,  broken 
only  by  the  click-clacks  of  her  knife,  as  she  cut  through  the 
rhubarb. 

"It's  a  sad  world,"  Amelia  started,  ruminating  aloud. 
"There  are  poor  creatures  who  never  did  any  one  any 
harm  cut  off  from  all  society  in  a  lonely  old  house  a  mile 
from  even  a  cottage.  I'm  sociable  by  nature.  I  like  to 
sparkle  in  society!  If  you'd  told  me  that  when  I  came 
here  eight  years  ago  I'd  have  stopped  longer  than  just  to 

40 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

— well,  more  than  a  night,  I'd  never  have  believed  you! 
But  I  always  was  timid,  and  all  my  other  relations  in 
America!  Many's  the  time  I  wish  I  hadn't  come  here  that 
day!  And  a  lot  of  good  I've  done  by  coming  too!  And 
her  always  suspicious — I  should  be  comfortable  in  America 
to  this  day  if  it  hadn't  been  that  I  always  was  so  susceptible 
to  the  other  sex!  And  couldn't  resist  coming  along  with 
her  when  I  heard  he  had  gone  to  England.  And  then 
to  follow  her  here!  And  stay  here! — "  From  this  half- 
maudlin  jeremiad  Audrey  grasped  an  alarming  fact. 

"Oh,  Amelia,  you  won't  go  away  and  leave  me  ?  Oh, 
promise  you  won't,  Amelia !" 

Whereupon  Amelia  wept. 

"So  there's  some  one  to  love  me,  after  all!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

OVER  the  grass  undulated  Audrey;  with  stately  step 
and  slow  she  swam  along,  turning  her  head  now  this 
way,  now  that.  The  turn  of  her  thin  little  wrist  as  she 
held  up  an  imaginary  train  was  the  embodiment  of  ele- 
gance; disdain  crinkled  her  insignificant  nose;  her  chin 
uplifted  itself.  In  her  hair,  stuck  rakishly  through  a  plait, 
was  a  long  spray  of  wild  hyacinth. 

A  red  cow  eyed  her  mildly;  she  appeared  to  be  pondering 
over  this  queer  small  mortal  and  her  queer  actions,  but 
she  may  have  been  merely  thinking  of  the  cud  she  was 
chewing.  But  another  pair  of  eyes  watched  amusedly  over 
the  hedge;  there  was  no  doubt  that  the  owner  of  these 
eyes  was  pondering  upon  Audrey  and  her  actions. 

Suddenly  she  sank  to  the  ground,  and  lay  prone,  her  face 
upturned  to  the  blue  skies.  In  an  instant  she  was  up 
again,  and  stood  frowning  down  upon  the  grass.  Then 
once  more  she  sank,  and  lay  still. 

When  she  arose  and  swam  again  upon  her  languorous 
way  Prince  Charming  vaulted  the  hedge  and  approached 
her.  She  did  not  see  him  till  he  stood  bowing  before  her, 
his  hat  clasped  to  his  breast. 

The  startled  color  leaped  to  her  face,  then  she  turned 
and  ran — ran  away,  all  her  dignity  gone,  her  plaits  flying 
out  behind  her,  her  thin  legs  kicking  up  in  desperate  and 
most  unstately  haste. 

42 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

He  overtook  her,  caught  her,  swung  her  up. 

"  Do  you  call  that  a  nice  greeting,  young  lady  ?" 

She  wriggled. 

"Were  you  such  a  very  grand  dame  just  then,  Mistress 
Audrey,  that  you  couldn't  bring  yourself  to  greet  a  mere 
nobody  ?"  he  teased. 

"I — I  want  to  go  home,"  she  sobbed. 

"Go  along  then." 

He  put  her  down,  and  eyed  her  laughingly. 

She  stood,  head  down-hung,  her  small  fingers  twin- 
ing nervously  in  a  bit  of  her  gray  skirt:  her  very  neck 
burned. 

"You've  lost  that  beautiful  hat  of  yours,"  he  said. 

She  turned  to  seek  it. 

He  walked  beside  her. 

"When  I  was  a  kid,"  he  said,  carelessly,  "I  was  mostly  a 
Pirate  King  or  a  Great  General.  Sometimes  I  was  a 
Prince  at  a  Ball,  and  then  there'd  be  a  Beautiful  Princess, 
and  she'd  pace  the  floor  as  you  were  doing  just  now,  and 
she'd  wear  flowers  in  her  hair — " 

"I  am  very  silly!"  came  a  shamed  murmur. 

"You're  too  jolly  well  fond  of  calling  yourself  names. 
That's  what's  the  matter  with  you.  But  why  did  you  fall 
down  ?" 

A  little  of  the  nervously  sensitive  horror  was  abating 
beneath  his  careless  kindness. 

"I — I  was  fainting.     You  see,  I  was  very  genteel." 

"So  it's  genteel  to  faint,  is  it  ?" 

"Oh  yes!  Amelia's  mother  was  very  genteel,  and  she 
always  fainted  when  she  wanted  a  new  bonnet  and  her 
husband  wouldn't  give  her  the  money  for  it.  And  she 
fainted  when  it  rained  on  Sunday  and  it  would  have  spoiled 

4  43 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

her  Sunday  dress  to  go  to  church,  and  she  fainted  and 
stayed  at  home." 

"An  adaptable  sort  of  lady,"  he  observed.  "Let's  sit 
down  a  bit,  Audrey,  or  perhaps  I  shall  faint,  too.  Don't 
sit  on  your  hat,  though  it  might  improve  it:  it  certainly 
couldn't  hurt  it."  He  stretched  himself  out  on  the  grass 
and  sniffed.  "That  smells  good — eh,  young  'un  ?" 

"It's  hyacinths  in  that  cottage  garden,"  she  said. 

"Ever  wondered  why  blackbirds  always  wear  their  Sun- 
day clothes,  Audrey  ?  Kind  old  chap  to  come  and  sing 
to  us.  He's  a  wicked  old  sinner,  I  believe — sure  his  beak's 
made  up.  Now,  isn't  it  ?  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  yaller 
beak  in  all  your  many  days  ?" 

Audrey  sat  watching  the  blackbird:  the  dreamy  silence 
lasted  a  long  while :  then  he  flew  away. 

She  turned  to  her  companion. 

"He's  gone,"  she  said. 

He  lifted  a  lazy  hand  and  pushed  up  his  panama  hat. 

"I  was  just  going  to  sleep,  Audrey!" 

"Oh,  I— I'm  very  sorry!" 

He  sat  up,  and  taking  hold  of  a  plait,  pulled  her  to  him. 

"Don't  be  so  beastly  good!"  he  said,  shaking  her. 
"Don't  look  at  me  like  that!  Shut  your  eyes!" 

She  shut  them  obediently. 

"Oh,  kid,  open  them!" 

She  opened  them  wide — great,  wondering,  hazel  eyes. 
It  struck  him  for  the  first  time  that  they  were  beau- 
tiful. 

"Audrey,"  he  groaned,  "if  you  go  on  being  so  disgust- 
ingly good  you'll  end  by  turning  into  a  beastly  little  prig! 
Don't  be  so  good!  Now  when  I  said  that  you  had  roused 
me,  you  should  have  chuckled  (I'll  have  to  teach  you  how 

44 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

to  do  a  diabolical  chuckle),  and  you  should  have  said: 
'Serves  you  right,  old  lazy  bones!'     Say  it  now!" 

"Oh,  please— oh,  I  can't— 

"You  must,  Audrey!    You've  got  to.     Hurry  up." 

A  sudden  spasm  of  humor  struggled  to  life  in  her  over- 
charged bosom.  She  lifted  her  head  and  the  gleam  of  it 
shone  in  her  face. 

"I  won't!    You  told  me  to  be  naughty,  so  I  w — won't!" 

He  gave  a  shout  of  laughter. 

"Bravo,  little  'un!  You're  getting  on!  But  the  wob — 
wob — wobble  at  the  end  spoilt  it  rather.  I  can't  make 
you  say  it  now,  can  I  ?  Out  of  my  own  mouth  I  stand 
convicted." 

She  sat  marvelling  at  her  own  daring.  Over  by  the 
blackberry  hedge,  in  the  bank  beneath,  a  primrose  had 
stretched  up,  long  and  slim,  and  its  little  pale  face  was 
watching  softly.  She  wondered  was  it  surprised,  too  ? 

"Audrey,  don't  sit  up  so  straight.  I  don't  think  such  a 
stiff  back  is  proper  on  a  day  like  this!" 

"Mother  says  little  girls  must  always  sit  up  straight." 

"Does  she,  by  Jove  ?     Oh,  well,  let's  go  for  a  walk." 

"I  can't  come  very  far,  because  it's  nearly  dinner-time, 
and  I  don't  quite  know  my  geography  yet." 

"Geography!  Tuck  that  book  away  at  once!  Don't 
let  me  see  it." 

The  walk  extended  itself  beyond  the  limit  allowable, 
and  Audrey  arrived  home,  hot  and  breathless,  just  as 
Amelia  was  washing  up  the  dinner  plates. 

"You'll  catch  it!"  so  Amelia  greeted  her.  "You  know 
she  won't  allow  unpunctuality.  I've  left  out  a  bit  of 
stewed  mutton  for  you.  You're  to  have  it  in  here,  but  go 
and  tell  her  you've  come  back  first." 

45 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Something  clutched  at  the  cowardly  little  legs  and  held 
them  fast  where  they  were. 

"I  can't!  Oh,  Amelia,  couldn't  you  tell  mother  I'm 
back  ?" 

"Not  me!     Don't  be  such  a  baby.     She  won't  eat  you!" 

Audrey  knew  that.  She  knew  that  not  much  would  be 
said,  but  no  amount  of  such  reasoning  could  bring  courage 
to  her  shrinking  spirit.  She  was  shy,  very  sensitive,  timid, 
with  a  wealth  of  love  seeking  some  outlet  in  her  hot  little 
heart.  In  spite  of  her  mother's  undemonstrative  methods, 
in  spite  of  her  undeniable  harshness,  Audrey  loved  her;  but 
her  love  was  driven  back  on  itself;  she  shrank  sensitively 
from  rebuff,  and  early  learned  to  hide  her  feelings  from  her 
mother.  But  there  were  two  occasions  that  the  lonely 
child  hugged  in  memory.  One  was  long  ago  when  she  had 
had  measles.  The  mother  who  had  nursed  her;  watched 
over  her,  fed  her,  was  not  the  mother  of  every-day  life. 
She  had  been  tenderness  itself;  gentle,  patient,  not  demon- 
strative even  then,  but  Audrey  had  felt  the  love  watching 
over  her.  She  had  dared  to  fling  her  arms  round  the  lean 
brown  neck,  and  rest  her  head  on  her  mother's  bosom. 
The  other  occasion  to  be  gloated  over  in  memory  was  the 
night  when  Marcia  Barrington  had  rested  in  their  house, 
and  Audrey  had  wakened  to  find  her  mother  beside  her  bed. 

"Oh,  do  go  and  tell  her,  Amelia!     Oh,  please  do!" 

Amelia  put  down  a  plate. 

"Very  well,  then.  You  hurry  up  with  your  dinner, 
dearie." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Amelia!" 

Audrey  was  left  alone  in  the  kitchen;  she  tried  obediently 
to  eat  her  dinner,  but  she  was  too  intent  on  listening  and 
waiting  for  it  to  be  much  of  a  success. 

46 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Amelia  came  back. 

"That's  all  right,  dearie.  You're  to  eat  your  dinner, 
and  then  get  out  your  sewing,  as  usual." 

"Oh,  wasn't  she  angry,  Amelia  ?" 

"No,  not  a  bit." 

"I  do  think  you're  a  ministering  angel,  Amelia!"  Audrey 
said,  with  fervent  earnestness. 

Amelia  bridled,  and  washed  a  plate. 

"Oh,  I  always  did  have  a  kind  heart,  dearie.  I  didn't 
want  you  to  get  into  trouble,  so  I  just  told  her  you'd  dropped 
your  geography  book,  and  had  to  go  back  a  long  way  to 
look  for  it." 

There  was  a  silence.  Audrey  pushed  away  her  plate, 
and  rose. 

"You've  never  finished  already,  dearie?" 

"I  don't  want  any  more,  thank  you." 

"Well  now,  what  a  poor  appetite  you  have!  You  take 
after  me.  I  always  had  a  delicate  appetite." 

Amelia,  as  she  spoke,  was  rapidly  eating  up  the  mutton 
left  by  Audrey. 

Audrey  stood  by  the  door  and  looked  out  into  the  garden 
at  a  row  of  cabbages. 

"But  I — I  didn't  drop  my  geography  book,  Amelia," 
she  said,  timidly. 

"Bless  the  child,  do  be  careful!  After  all  the  trouble 
I've  taken,  too.  Of  course  you  didn't  drop  your  book!  I 
said  that  to  save  you  being  punished." 

Audrey  stared  at  the  cabbages :  twice  she  opened  her 
lips  to  speak,  and  shut  them  again;  then,  almost  in  a 
whisper: 

"But  it — it  was  a  lie,  Amelia!" 

"Yes,  of  course  it  was,"  cheerfully  assented  Amelia, 

47 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"and  the  quick  way  I  thought  of  it  too!  And  all  for  you, 
dearie!" 

There  was  a  longer  pause  this  time. 

"Three-quarters  of  an  hour  late,  you  were"  Amelia 
pursued  then,  "and  if  I  hadn't  been  so  quick  to  help  you, 
you'd  have  been  shut  up  in  the  box  room,  I  expect — " 

"Oh  no,  Amelia!     Oh  no!" 

"I  expect  you  would.     But  I've  saved  you  from  all  that." 

She  was  drying  a  tumbler.  "  Do  you  ever  talk  of  me  to 
the  young  gentleman,  dearie  ?"  she  insinuated. 

"Yes." 

Amelia  sniggered. 

"You  tell  him  how  kind  I  am  to  you,  and  how  you  love 
me  ?  Well,  now,  next  time  you'll  tell  him  how  I  saved  you 
from  a  severe  punishment,  won't  you,  dearie  ?" 

Audrey  stood  silent,  staring  out  into  the  dreary  garden. 
There  was  something  very  desolate  about  the  rigid  little 
figure  standing  there  alone — fighting  a  battle  alone.  But 
Amelia  could  not  see  or  understand.  She  finished  washing 
up;  she  put  away  the  plates  and  dishes. 

"Would  you  like  a  piece  of  bread-and-butter  ?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Amelia." 

"You  won't  forget  to  tell  him  how  I  saved  you  from 
being  punished,  will  you  ?" 

The  quick  scarlet  rushed  over  Audrey's  face,  her  neck. 

"I — I — you  see,  Amelia,  I — I  don't  think  he — he  would 
like  it." 

"Not  like  me  saving  you  from  being  punished!  Well, 
I  never!  And  why  not  ?" 

"  It  was  a  lie,  Amelia.  I  know  it  was  very  kind  of  you, 
but  oh,  I  wish  you  hadn't  said  it!  Oh,  I  wish  you  hadn't!" 

Amelia  grew  very  red;  her  little  eyes  blinked  rapidly. 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

When  she  was  angry  her  face  coarsened,  and  lost  its  only 
attractiveness — a  certain  weak  amiability,  hardly  strong 
enough  to  be  characterized  as  kindness. 

Audrey  shrank  back  against  the  door. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  Amelia  began,  her  husky  voice  grown 
rasping.  "Instead  of  being  grateful,  you  pretend  you're 
so  virtuous  all  of  a  sudden  that  you  despise  poor  Amelia 
for  trying  to  help  you!  You  to  be  so  grand  and  virtuous!" 
she  snorted,  derisively.  "You,  of  all  people!  Oh,  it  be- 
comes you,  doesn't  it  ?  It's  quite  right  and  proper,  of 
course,  that  you  should  look  down  on  honest,  respectable 
folk!" 

She  had  worked  herself  up,  as  weak  natures  almost  in- 
variably do.  "Ah,  you  nasty,  stuck-up  little  cat!"  she 
snarled. 

Audrey  was  very  white,  her  eyes  wide  with  terror.  She 
stood  quite  still,  staring  fascinated  at  Amelia's  unpleasant 
face. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  sneeringly.  "Go 
and  tell  your  mother  the  truth,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Audrey. 

Amelia  gasped.     For  a  moment  she  was  speechless. 

"You — you — and  how  about  me  ?" 

"I've  thought  of  that.     I — I  don't  know,"  she  quavered. 

"Oh,  pray  don't  worry  about  me!  I'm  all  right.  She'll 
only  think  you  told  me  a  lie  first,  and  make  your  punish- 
ment a  bit  heavier.  That's  all.  /  don't  mind.  Run 
along  and  tell  her.  Do  now!" 

Audrey  went  slowly  to  the  door. 

This  scene  with  Amelia  had  magnified  the  awfulness  of 
the  original  trouble  out  of  all  proportion.  She  was  shak- 
ing with  nervousness,  but,'oddly  enough,  she  held  her  head 

49 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

high.  Not  before  Amelia  would  she  let  it  be  seen  how  fright- 
ened she  was!  Her  shaky  fingers  slipped  and  fumbled 
over  the  door-handle.  Amelia  laughed. 

Sudden,  wild  anger  flamed  red  in  the  child's  face;  she 
turned  on  Amelia,  her  eyes  blazing. 

"Be  quiet!" 

That  was  all,  but  Amelia's  sneer  died  in  her  throat. 

Audrey  opened  the  door  and  went  out.  After  her  came 
a  half-hearted  laugh  from  Amelia. 

"Hope  you'll  enjoy  yourself  !"  she  called  out. 

Audrey  walked  across  the  hall,  then  stopped  outside  the 
room  where  she  knew  her  mother  sat  at  work.  Every- 
thing was  very  still;  only  in  her  ears  there  was  a  loud  noise 
that  worried  her.  She  shook  her  head,  but  it  would  not  go. 
There  it  was — thud — thud,  thud — thud,  thud — thud.  She 
would  not  be  able  to  hear  what  her  mother  said.  .  .  .  Inside 
the  room  a  pair  of  scissors  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  clatter; 
perhaps  the  scissors  would  be  sorry  for  her.  She  turned  the 
handle  and  went  in. 

Susan  sat  at  the  table  working;  she  looked  up. 

"You  are  very  late,  Audrey — "  Her  voice  broke  off. 
"What  is  the  matter?"  she  said,  sharply. 

Audrey  stood  just  within  the  door;  she  shook  her  head, 
but  the  noise  had  grown  louder,  and  would  not  go  away. 

"I  didn't  lose  my  geography  book,  Mother,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  silence.  She  wondered  had  her  mother 
spoken,  and  that  noise  in  her  ears  had  prevented  her  hear- 
ing. She  glanced  up  fearfully;  her  mother  was  looking 
at  her — her  face  was  not  angry. 

"Come  here,"  she  said. 

The  noise  died  down  a  little.  Audrey  went  up  close 
beside  her  mother's  chair. 

50 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"What  made  Amelia  say  you  had  lost  it,  Audrey?" 

Back  came  that  awful  thud — thud,  thud — thud,  thud — 
thud. 

What  could  she  say  ?  Loyalty  to  one  who  had  tried  to 
shield  her  tied  her  tongue. 

"Tell  me,  Audrey." 

"I— I  can't,  Mother!" 

Another  pause. 

"She  said  it  to  prevent  my  punishing  you  for  unpunc- 
tuality,"  Susan  said. 

"Oh,  Mother!  Oh,  don't  punish  her!  She  said  you 
would  only  think  I  had  told  her  a  lie  at  first — " 

"No,  I  shouldn't  think  that,  Audrey." 

Something  big  seemed  to  have  happened  then  to  Audrey. 
The  noise  stopped;  a  great  ache  rushed  into  her  throat,  and 
suddenly  she  was  crying — crying — 

"Hush,  Audrey!  Don't  cry  so.  I  am  not  angry.  You 
have  told  me  the  truth." 

She  was  on  her  mother's  lap;  her  mother  was  drying  her 
tears.  .  .  . 

"Why  were  you  so  frightened,  Audrey  ?  You  must  not 
be  so  timid — so  nervous.  There,  I'll  say  nothing  to  Amelia, 
as  you  have  told  me  the  truth.  Try  to  stop  crying." 

Audrey  gulped  and  sobbed  up  her  tears  as  fast  as  she 
could. 

"What  made  you  late,  Audrey?" 

"I  went  for  a  walk,  Mother." 

After  that  she  lay  silent  awhile. 

It  had  happened — without  design  on  her  part,  quite 
naturally  to  her — that  her  mother  had  heard  nothing  of 
Prince  Charming.  Her  method  of  training  had  chilled, 
driven  back  all  confidences — had  made  it  almost  impossible 

51 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

for  the  child  to  speak  to  her  on  any  subject  that  went  deep 
with  her.  Even  Amelia  was  easier,  in  a  way,  to  tell  things 
to;  but  neither  to  her  nor  to  any  one  did  the  child  really 
unburden  her  poor  little  soul.  Amelia  had  been  told — 
scantily — of  Prince  Charming,  because  it  was  necessary  to 
Audrey's  proud  delight  to  find  expression  somewhere.  But 
Amelia  knew  nothing  of  what  those  meetings  meant  to  the 
child,  nothing  of  the  adoration  she  had  given  him. 

But  now,  there  on  her  mother's  lap,  there  came  a  longing 
to  tell  her  of  him.  Haltingly  she  began: 

"You  see,  I  went  for  a  walk  with — with  the  young 
gentleman,  Mother." 

"Don't  say  'young  gentleman,'  Audrey.  Whom  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"I — I  don't  know  his  name." 

"A  stray  acquaintanceship!  I  have  told  you  I  will  not 
have  you  speak  to  strangers,  Audrey." 

"He  isn't  a  stray  acquaintanceship,  Mother.  He — he 
was  in  church — he  is  very  beautiful,"  in  a  shy  whisper. 

"Have  you  met  him  more  than  once?" 

"  Four  times,"  said  Audrey,  proudly. 

She  looked  up  into  her  mother's  face.  There  was  some- 
thing there  that  she  did  not  understand.  Susan's  thin  lips 
were  shut  closely;  her  bright  little  eyes  stared  out  before 
her.  And  yet,  to  Audrey,  she  did  not  look  exactly  angry. 

"Why  did  you  never  mention  him  to  me,  Audrey?" 

"I  don't  know,  Mother.     I — I  just  didn't." 

Susan  studied  the  child's  face;  Audrey's  eyes  met  hers, 
clear,  beautifully  honest.  Yet  Susan  said,  the  words  drag- 
ging as  if  loath  to  be  uttered : 

"Was  it  because  you  were  afraid  I  should  forbid  you  to 
meet  him  ?" 

52 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

She  saw  the  child's  face  redden. 

"No,  Mother,"  she  said,  and  she  did  not  want  to  talk 
about  him  any  more. 

"Get  out  your  sewing  now,"  Susan  said,  quietly. 

Audrey  slipped  to  the  floor. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  punish  me,  Mother  ?" 

"No." 

She  fetched  her  sewing,  her  work-box,  and  sat  down; 
she  put  on  her  thimble,  threaded  her  needle,  and  began 
her  work.  She  looked  pale;  she  had  been  through  over- 
much emotion  within  the  last  hour.  She  was  not  a  robust 
child,  and  the  loneliness  ^f  her  life  was  not  conducive 
to  health;  she  was  continually  thrown  back  too  much 
on  herself.  It  was  owing  to  her  pallor  that  she  had  en- 
joyed the  freedom  out-of-doors  lately,  that  had  made  the 
meetings  with  Prince  Charming  possible.  Dr.  Lawson, 
called  in  by  Susan,  had  prescribed  fresh  air,  plenty  of 
fresh  air,  so  the  walks  with  her  mother  had  given  place  to 
mornings  out-of-doors,  during  which  time  lessons  had  to 
be  studied  for  the  afternoon.  An  hour's  sewing  was  the 
rule,  then  two  hours  for  spelling,  dictation,  reading,  geog- 
raphy, history,  and  so  on. 

Audrey  looked  up  from  her  needle-work,  and  stared  sur- 
prised at  her  mother. 

Susan,  the  never  idle,  sat,  the  towel  she  was  hemming  in 
her  lap,  her  hands  lying  upon  it;  she  was  looking  out  before 
her,  lost  in  thought.  There  was  that  in  her  face  that  made 
Audrey  half  rise  to  go  to  her. 

At  the  movement  her  mother's  eyes  came  back  to  her. 
She  picked  up  her  work. 

"Don't  fidget,  Audrey,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  MELIA  was  snoring.  Audrey  paused  in  front  of  her 
/~\  and  frowned  impatiently.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
about  it — Amelia  was  certainly  snoring.  Audrey  won- 
dered :  Dare  she  risk  a  pinch — the  veriest  nip  of  a  pinch  ? 
But  if  it  should  rouse  Amelia  ?  Yet  Queens  never  snored! 
She  was  quite  sure  they  never  snored.  She  stood  in  per- 
plexity. The  lamplight  shone  on  her  worried,  earnest 
face;  on  the  dishcloth  pinned  to  the  hem  of  her  skirt; 
on  the  plaits  wound  round  her  head  and  tied  in  a  sort  of 
knot  in  front.  It  shone,  too,  on  Amelia — head  fallen  over 
her  right  shoulder;  mouth  open;  her  shrunken  little  figure 
huddled  in  her  chair;  her  high  brow  and  roll  of  curls 
topped  by  a  little  bright  tin  cake-mold,  tentatively  placed 
there  by  Audrey,  after  slumber  had  closed  Amelia's  eye- 
lids. Suddenly  the  worried  face  cleared — 

"Hark  how  the  faithful  hound  beneath  thy  chair 
growls  unceasingly  to  keep  danger  from  thee,  oh,  Majesty 
— Queen!  And  I  guard  thee,  too,  though  but  an  unworthy 
Lady  of  Honor."  Up  and  down  the  kitchen,  round  the 
table,  sailed  Audrey.  Her  imagination,  for  the  first  time 
in  all  her  short  life,  had  been  encouraged  and  fed  lately 
by  Prince  Charming,  and  now  it  rioted  with  a  joy,  a 
triumphant  glee,  that  transformed  the  somewhat  bare 
kitchen  into  a  glittering  Palace;  Amelia  into  a  Beautiful 
Queen;  her  snore  into  the  Warning  Growl  of  her  Faithful 

54 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Hound — a  glee  that  made  the  door  between  kitchen  and 
scullery  an  ivy-twined  window  from  whence  she  spoke 
with  a  Prince — a  gay  young  blue-eyed  Prince,  of  course, 
frank  and  tanned  of  face,  shorn  forever  of  all  ebony  locks 
and  mustache;  denuded  of  the  interesting  pallor  that  once 
had  adorned  his  handsome  features. 

Languidly  she  leaned  from  the  window. 

"Fain  would  I  join  theein  thy  old-fashioned  garden  where 
the  peacocks  strout!  Fain  would  I  walk  with  thee  beneath 
the  avenue  of  oak  trees"  (this  was  culled  from  some  words 
Prince  Charming  had  let  fall  about  his  home).  "But  I 
must  guard  my  Crowned  Queen.  Thou  may  kiss  my 
hand!" 

Grandly  the  thin  little  arm  was  extended;  with  an  im- 
mense condescension  the  chaste  salute  was  allowed.  This 
was  not  the  shy  Audrey  Prince  Charming  was  accustomed 
to  meet  beneath  the  skies  of  every-day  life.  As  with 
so  many  shy  children,  Audrey,  in  her  imaginings,  was  a 
bold  creature — a  creature  who  pursued  her  own  way, 
scattering  favors  at  her  pleasure,  and  withholding  them,  too, 
as  it  pleased  her.  Round  the  kitchen  table  she  sailed. 

Some  one  tapped  at  the  kitchen  window.  Audrey, 
brought  back  to  every-day  life,  tore  off  the  dishcloth,  pulled 
at  her  plaits. 

"It's  only  me,"  came  a  whining  voice  from  outside. 

She  recognized  Rebecca  Day's  voice.  She  glanced  un- 
certainly towards  the  slumbering  Amelia;  she  knew  that, 
for  some  occult  reason,  Amelia  regarded  any  imputation  of 
sleep  as  a  deadly  insult.  But  she  did  not  want  to  open  the 
window  herself;  she  shrank  sensitively  from  old  Rebecca, 
who  always  smelled  of  spirits. 

The  next  tap  on  the  window  roused  Amelia;  she  started 
55 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

up  and  the  cake-tin  fell  with  a  clatter  to  the  floor.     Amelia 
regarded  it  with  drowsy  surprise. 

"I've  been  sitting  there  worrying  over  that  cake  I  burned 
this  afternoon,"  she  observed,  going  towards  the  window. 
"Who  wants  a  drunken  old  woman  in  the  house,  I'd  like  to 
know  ?"  Muttering,  she  flung  up  the  window. 

"Good-evening,  Miss  Harris,"  said  the  whining  voice,  a 
conciliatory  note  in  the  last  words,  "it's  beginning  to  rain, 
and  I  do  suffer  that  bad  with  the  rheumatics — " 

"Come  in,"  Amelia  said,  "come  and  sit  by  the  fire, 
Rebecca.  I'm  sure  you're  quite  welcome." 

The  old  woman  went  round  to  the  door  and  entered  the 
kitchen,  while  Audrey  stood  puzzling  over  the  discrepancy 
between  Amelia's  welcome  and  her  words  as  she  went 
to  the  window.  Amelia  often  puzzled  her  in  that  way. 

Rebecca  sat  over  the  fire,  holding  out  her  hands  to  the 
warmth. 

"How's  little  Missy?  It's  a  cold  night  for  the  time  of 
year;  the  mist  seems  to  eat  into  your  bones.  A  nasty 
night  for  the  young  gentleman  from  Elsham  to  go  a  long 
journey." 

Audrey  studied  her  wrinkled  face  and  gnarled  hands, 
and  made  her  into  a  Wicked  Old  Witch. 

"Up  at  the  Hall  he's  been  staying,"  pursued  Rebecca; 
"very  like  his  cousin  he  is — a  well-set-up  young  man." 

"Elsham  ?"  Amelia  said,  excitedly.  "Is  he  a  fair  young 
man,  and  tall  ?" 

"That's  him,  my  dear." 

Amelia  turned  and  winked  at  Audrey;  there  was  sly 
meaning  in  her  face.  Rebecca's  voice  went  meandering 
on  about  the  folk  at  the  Hall,  and  slowly  Audrey  grew  cold 
and  colder.  At  last  she  spoke: 

56 


"Has  he  gone  away  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  all  in  a  hurry.  A  groom  is  to  go  after  him  with 
his  horse;  a  beautiful  creature  he  is,  too." 

"It  isn't  'he';  it's  a  chestnut  mare,"  Audrey  said  in  a 
dull  little  voice,  of  which  no  one  took  any  notice. 

So  it  was  Prince  Charming! 

The  mare  made  the  dread  a  certainty.  And  he  had  gone! 
The  world  had  become  suddenly  an  impossible  place  to 
go  on  living  in.  She  crept  away  into  a  corner  and  sat 
there,  cold  and  filled  with  the  cruel  and  final  despair  of 
childhood. 

Rebecca  went  away  after  a  little  while.  Presently 
Susan  came  into  the  kitchen. 

"Audrey,  it  is  your  bedtime." 

A  little  white  face  was  turned  to  the  light  of  the  lamp; 
tragedy  was  written  in  every  soft  line. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Audrey?     Come  here." 

She  came  across  to  the  table,  looking  dazed  by  her 
sudden  entrance  into  the  light.  Susan  took  her  hand,  and 
led  her  from  the  room. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked  again,  once  they  were 
outside. 

"He  has  gone  away,"  Audrey  said,  in  a  dull  voice. 

"He?    Who?" 

"Prince  Charming." 

Susan's  face  was  contorted  suddenly  by  a  queer  spasm. 
She  said  no  more,  only  led  the  child  up-stairs  to  her  room. 
There  she  undressed  her,  and  put  her  to  bed.  Audrey  was 
very  gentle,  very  quiet. 

"Thank  you,  Mother,"  she  said,  politely,  as  her  head 
touched  the  pillow. 

57 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Susan  left  the  room.  When  she  re-appeared,  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  later,  Audrey  lay  as  she  had  left  her,  straight 
out,  on  her  back,  her  wide  eyes  fixed  on  the  flickering 
candle.  Susan  carried  a  bowl  of  bread-and-milk. 

"You  must  eat  your  supper,  Audrey." 

She  sat  up  obediently,  and  swallowed  the  spoonfuls 
her  mother  put  into  her  mouth.  She  did  not  remember  to 
wonder  why  she  was  being  fed. 

When  it  was  finished  Susan  put  the  bowl  down  on  the 
table;  then  she  came  up  to  the  bed,  and  stood  looking  down 
upon  her.  She  said  what  was  for  her  a  weak  thing  to  say, 
and  a  thing  that  rent  her  jealous  heart  as  she  uttered  it: 

"Perhaps  he  will  come  back,  Audrey." 

A  quiver  passed  through  the  child. 

"If  he  is  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Barrington's,  he  will  be  sure  to 
come  and  stay  with  her  again,  Audrey.  You  must  wait  a 
little  while,  that's  all." 

Oh,  blessed  mother-wisdom! 

Slowly  the  tragedy  dissolved  itself  into  a  trouble  with  a 
possible  brilliant  ending  to  it. 

She  began  to  tremble  with  the  relief  of  approaching  tears. 
"He  may  come  back  any  day." 

It  was  Susan's  face  that  bore  the  mark  of  tragedy  now; 
every  line  and  crease  seemed  deepened  momentarily. 

Audrey's  tears  came  then. 

"Oh,  Mother!  Mother'" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  non-appearance  of  Prince  Charming  was  ren- 
dered mercifully  bearable  by  the  eager  hope  that 
every  day  would  bring  him.  But  the  days  grew  into 
weeks,  and  the  weeks  into  months;  the  months  into  years; 
and  he  did  not  come.  And  slowly  he  was — not  forgotten, 
but  laid  away  as  a  beautiful  memory.  From  that  night 
when  she  heard  of  his  going,  Audrey's  freedom  was  in- 
sidiously but  inexorably  curtailed.  So  it  was  that  the 
people  'up  at  the  Hall,'  two  miles  away,  were  to  her  only 
a  glorious  dream,  fed  by  pictures  flashing  by  in  dog-cart  or 
on  horseback.  In  these  pictures,  as  the  years  went  by,  she 
saw  various  wondrous  little  golden  heads,  just  like  the 
golden  head  of  the  beautiful  lady  who  had  rested  in  the 
gray  cottage  on  that  stormy  night.  Once  or  twice  she 
met  one  or  two  of  the  owners  of  the  golden  heads,  generally 
fleeing  from  some  retributive  justice.  But  till  she  was  a 
slim  girl  of  sixteen  she  spoke  to  none  of  them.  Then  on 
one  memorable  afternoon  in  June  she  was  returning  from 
taking  soup  to  a  sick  woman  in  the  village.  She  was  alone. 
She  was  walking  along  Monk's  lane,  which  was  hot  and 
sweet  with  the  scent  of  honeysuckle,  and  buzzing  with 
bees,  who  were  busy  among  the  wild  foxgloves  that  grew 
up  the  banks  on  either  side.  Suddenly  through  the  hedge 
a  voice  hailed  her;  it  was  a  beautiful  little  voice,  and  every 
5  59 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

syllable  was  enunciated  with  a  perfect  clearness  that  gave 
an  odd  piquancy  to  the  speaker's  manner  of  speech. 

"  I  say,  are  you  any  good  at  patching  up  a  person  ?" 

Audrey  lifted  startled  eyes  to  the  hedge.  A  small  girl 
of  about  seven  years  was  working  her  way  through  the 
brambles,  gloriously  unmindful  of  her  dainty  white  frock. 
Her  beautiful  little  face  was  pale;  the  sun  shone  on  the 
silky  fair  hair  that  framed  it  like  a  halo. 

Audrey  recognized  her  as  one  of  the  children  from  the 
Hall.  A  thrill  of  excitement  went  through  her. 

"I  can  try,"  she  said,  shyly. 

"Thanks,"  returned  the  small  person,  who  was  not  shy 
at  all.  "It's  in  this  field.  We've  had  rather  a  bad  smash- 
up.  Can  you  climb  through  ?" 

"There  is  a  stile  just  along  here,"  Audrey  said. 

When  she  reached  the  field  she  descried  a  little  white 
heap  on  the  ground,  and  the  small  person  who  had  accost- 
ed her  regarding  the  heap. 

A  courteous  voice  reached  her. 

"It's  mostly  nose,  so  don't  be  frightened." 

The  heap  proved  to  be  a  smaller  edition  of  the  first  little 
girl,  her  beauty  a  good  deal  marred  by  the  nose-bleeding 
which  gave  Audrey  a  sickening  thrill  as  she  came  up. 

"I  told  her  to  lie  still.  I  thought  it  might  stop.  Isn't  it 
too  aggravating  ?" 

Audrey  was  kneeling  beside  the  ghastly  little  object  on 
the  grass.  Her  nose  had  stopped  bleeding,  but  there  was  a 
nasty  cut  on  her  brow  from  which  the  blood  still  trickled 
slowly.  "We  will  take  her  across  to  the  stream  over 
there,"  Audrey  said.  "Then  I  can  bathe  her  forehead." 

They  carried  her  across  the  field,  and  presently,  bathed, 
she  presented  a  less  terrible  appearance.  The  bleeding 

6c 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

had  ceased,  and  only  a  small  cut  and  a  slight  puffiness  of 
nose  remained  to  show  that  there  had  been  an  accident. 

"Are  you  hurt  anywhere  else?  How  did  it  happen?" 
Audrey  asked. 

"I  hit  my  nose  on  the  gate.  Oh  no,  I'm  not  hurt  at  all, 
thank  you." 

"It,"  put  in  her  sister  gloomily,  "was  all  the  Professor's 
fault.  We  had  given  nurse  the  slip  beautifully,  and  then 
the  Professor  came  along  on  his  silly  old  tricycle,  so  we 
had  to  run  away,  and  when  we  were  climbing  that  gate 
Tommy  fell,  you  see.  He's  always  doing  things  like  that." 

Her  reasoning  amused  Audrey. 

Tommy  rose,  and  slipped  a  confiding  hand  into  Au- 
drey's. "I  feel  quite  well/'  she  assured  her. 

Audrey  thought  it  better  to  go  with  her  to  the  Hall.  At 
the  gates  she  left  them. 

"You  have  been  most  awfully  kind,"  the  elder  child  told 
her.  "I'm  Jimmy.  She's  Tommy.  Our  real  names  are 
Gwendoline  and  Sybil.  We  all  have  boy's  names  in  our 
family." 

"My  name  is  Audrey  Fielding,"  Audrey  said,  stiff,  be- 
cause she  was  so  shy. 

Then  she  went  home  to  dream  about  it. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  Marcia  Barrington,  with  Jimmy 
and  Tommy  beside  her,  drove  up  to  the  gray  cottage.  She 
handed  the  reins  to  the  groom,  and  came  up  to  the 
door. 

Audrey,  her  needlework  fallen  to  the  floor,  watched 
from  the  window.  An  excitement,  that  between  exquisite 
pleasure  and  a  horrible  shyness,  was  painful,  made  her 
tremble,  as,  wide-eyed,  she  watched  and  waited,  peeping 
from  the  window.  She  heard  that  clear  little  voice  again. 

61 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Isn't  it  too  queer,  Mother,  to  have  no  flowers  in  the 
garden  ?" 

The  hot  sensitive  shame  that  is  so  apt  to  magnify  trifles 
made  her  shrink  back  appalled. 

She  heard  Amelia  show  the  visitors  into  the  stiff,  bare 
drawing-room  that  was  never  used.  Then  she  came  am- 
bling round  the  door. 

"What  ever  shall  we  do,  dearie?  Your  mother's  out! 
Don't  things  always  happen  so  ?  What  can  she  have 
called  for?  What  beautiful  clothes!  Just  like  little 
angels,  those  children  look!  I'm  all  a-quiver,  I  do  declare! 
I  always  was  so  sensitive — " 

"Amelia,  what  shall  I  do?" 

There  was  despair  in  the  cry.  To  Audrey  this  call 
was  a  terrible  thing,  now  that  she  knew  her  mother  was 
out. 

"Run  up-stairs  and  put  on  your  best  dress,  quick!  Then 
go  in  and  see  what  she  wants." 

"YeSj  Amelia.  Oughtn't  we  to  ask  her  to  have  some 
tea?" 

"I'll  set  the  table  quick  in  here,  dearie!  Don't  you  fret. 
You're  as  good  as  she  is." 

"Amelia,"  at  the  door  Audrey  stood,  terror  in  her  eye, 
"c — couldn't  you  go  in?" 

"It's  your  place!"  Amelia  declared,  with  unusual  firm- 
ness. "And  don't  ask  me  to  have  tea  with  you,  for  I 
won't!  You're  different.  And  tie  up  your  hair  with  your 
best  ribbon,  dearie.  Hurry  now!" 

She  followed  her  into  the  hall,  and  pursued  her  with  a 
loud  whisper  as  she  ran  up-stairs.  "Mind  you  talk!  It's 
very  bad  manners  to  sit  silent,  and  don't  fidget.  Ask 
after  the  health  of  all  her  family,  dearie!  And — Audrey — 

62 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

she  followed  her  up  a  few  stairs — "don't  forget  to  apologize 
for  the  food." 

Audrey  paused,  surprised.  "Isn't  there  any  cake  left, 
Amelia  ?" 

"Oh  yes!  And  I  made  some  fresh  ones  to-day  with  a 
bit  of  flour  I  had  over  from  the  pudding.  And  the  butter's 
fresh  in  to-day." 

"Well,  then,  it's  all  right,  isn't  it?" 

Amelia  fairly  stamped. 

"If  you  had  all  the  cakes  and  jellies  and  jams  in  the 
world,  it  would  still  be  the  correct  thing  to  apologize  for 
them!" 

"Oh!"  Audrey  said. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  drawing-room  door  was 
opened,  and  a  slim  figure  in  an  ugly  brown  frock  entered. 
Above  the  ill-fitting  and  unrelieved  neck  of  the  frock,  a 
small,  pale,  palpably  terrified  face  looked  out.  There  was 
something  so  pathetically  young  and  shy  and  innocent 
about  the  little  figure  that  Marcia  Barrington  experienced 
an  unexpected  inclination  to  take  her  in  her  arms.  In- 
stead she  went  forward,  her  beautiful  face  very  sweet,  and 
shook  hands. 

"  I  want  to  thank  you,"  she  said.  "  I  have  heard  all  about 
your  kindness  to  that  bad  Sybil  yesterday." 

Audrey  wanted  to  explain  that  she  had  done  nothing; 
she  wanted  to  tell  her  that  she  had  loved  doing  it;  that  she 
wished  she  could  have  done  more,  and  she  said  nothing — 
nothing  at  all!  Over  her  face  pink  waves  of  color  rushed 
and  receded,  but  her  tongue  refused  to  say  a  single  word. 

Marcia  went  on  talking  in  the  musical  voice  that  she  had 
handed  down  as  a  gift  to  all  her  children.  Jimmy  and 
Tommy  sat  looking  at  Audrey. 

63 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Audrey's  mind  was  filled  only  with  the  awful  thoughts 
that  in  a  few  minutes  she  would  have  to  pour  out  tea  for 
them,  and  that  it  was  "  very  bad  manners  to  sit  silent." 

Presently,  in  a  pause,  came  Jimmy's  voice: 

"Isn't  it  a  beautiful  day?" 

"Yes,"  Audrey  said. 

Jimmy  swung  her  slim  legs,  and  waited  for  her  to  speak. 
Audrey  knew  she  was  waiting.  In  her  mind  she  said: 
"  Don't  you  think  June  is  the  loveliest  month  in  the  year  ?" 
She  said  it  over  and  over,  till  it  lost  all  meaning. 

Marcia  told  her  a  funny  anecdote  of  her  youngest  child. 
In  her  interest  Audrey  forgot  herself:  she  bent  forward,  her 
soft  eyes  on  Marcia's  face.  She  laughed.  Marcia  found 
her  oddly  attractive.  Amelia  knocked  loudly  on  the  door. 

"Tea's  ready,  Miss  Audrey!"  she  said. 

Audrey  hated  that  "Miss."  In  spite  of  her  shyness,  she 
answered,  clearly: 

"Very  well,  Amelia  dear." 

She  never  called  Amelia  "dear;"  it  was  a  subtle  indica- 
tion of  her  character  that  she  did  it  now. 

Marcia  said  something  about  not  staying  to  tea,  think- 
ing it  kinder  to  her  poor  little  hostess;  but  Audrey's  horri- 
fied face,  as  she  read  into  the  refusal  her  failure  to  behave 
properly,  made  her  change  her  mind. 

It  was  a  terrible  ordeal:  afterwards  Audrey  had  only  a 
hazy  idea  of  what  they  had  talked  about.  She  remem- 
bered Marcia's  explanation  of  her  children's  having  boy's 
names.  The  eldest  child  had  always  been  a  boy  in  the 
Barrington  family,  and  always  named  James.  So  Gwen- 
doline, in  joke,  was  called  James.  Then  Sybil,  reaching 
years  of  discretion,  and  backed  by  her  sister,  demanded  a 
boy's  name  also.  They  had  chosen  Tommy  between  them. 

64 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"And  we've  christened  Madeline,  Dickie,"  Jimmy  in- 
formed her.  "The  grown-ups  choose  our  girl-names,  and 
we  choose  the  boy-ones.  The  girl-names  don't  matter  so 
much.  I  hope  there  will  be  heaps  more  of  us,  because  I 
want  a  Bobbie  and  a  Ferdinand  and  John  and  Clarence." 

"And  Edwin,"  added  Tommy.  "Mother,  may  I  ask 
for  more  jam  ?" 

Audrey's  hand  shook  as  she  poured  out  the  tea.  She 
forgot  to  put  in  milk.  She  could  not  eat  the  bread-and- 
butter  on  her  plate.  When  they  went  away  her  face  was 
no  longer  pale;  two  scarlet  spots  burned  feverishly  on  her 
cheeks;  her  eyes  were  brilliant. 

She  shut  the  door  when  they  had  driven  away.  She  ran 
up  to  her  bedroom,  and  she  cried  and  cried.  .  .  . 

In  vain  Amelia  stood  asking  questions. 

"Oh,  go  away!     Do  you  hear?     Go  away!" 

Rare  passion  stirred  the  poor  child.  Her  heart  and  soul 
were  sick  with  vague  tragedies.  The  glimpse  into  lives 
so  different  from  her  own  hurt  and  stung.  She  had  been 
such  an  idiot!  Oh,  what  a  bad-mannered  idiot  she  had 
been!  How  awful — awful  she  was  when  beside  beautiful 
Mrs.  Barrington!  Why  couldn't  she  have  spoken? — 
laughed  ? — jested  ? 

Sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  Audrey  composed  the 
following:  "Oh,  no,  really,  there's  nothing  to  thank  me 
for!  I  only  wish  I  could  have  done  more.  Poor  little  soul, 
how  brave  she  was!  .  .  . 

"You  like  April  better?  Well,  of  course  there  are  the 
primroses  and  bluebells,  and  spring  is  always  so  delightful, 
isn't  it  ?  The  poet's  favorite  month,  too.  But  what  a 
cold  spring  we  had  this  year,  hadn't  we  ?  ... 

"Only  seven?  And  may  I  call  you  Jimmy,  dear,  or 

65 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

must  it  be  Gwendoline  ?  Gwendoline  is  one  of  my  favorite 
names.  ...  I  am  so  sorry  mother  is  out.  She  may  come 
home  at  any  minute.  She  will  be  so  sorry  to  have  missed 
you.  .  .  .  Not  stay  ?  Oh,  really,  you  must!  Just  for  tea. 
The  horse  can  wait  just  for  that,  can't  he  ?  Oh,  I  could 
not  allow  you  to  go  without  any  tea!  I  really  couldn't.  . . ." 

So  easy!  Oh,  so  easy!  With  her  handkerchief  crum- 
pled into  a  wet  ball  in  her  hand,  sitting  there  alone,  how 
easy  it  seemed!  "Why  didn't  I  talk  like  that?"  moaned 
Audrey. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MARCI A  walked  up  and  down  the  room.    She  frowned. 
The  shaded  lights  gleamed  on  her  pale  yellow  dra- 
peries.    Marcia  was  fond  of  pale  yellow.     To-night  she 
was  worried. 

"I  must  do  something,  Dick!"  she  said. 

She  sank  into  the  low  chair  near  her  husband's. 

"It's  rather  a  difficult  job,  isn't  it  ?"  he  replied. 

"Of  course  it  is.  Horribly  difficult.  That's  what  worries 
me.  But  I  can't  get  her  dear  little  face  out  of  my  mind." 

"And  she  isn't  even  pretty?" 

"Oh,  pretty!  I  don't  know.  Her  eyes  are  beautiful. 
It  would  take  more  than  prettiness  to  triumph  over  a 
frock  like  hers!  I'm  convinced  she  is  starved." 

He  looked  at  her  in  mock  alarm. 

"Was  she  so  thin,  then  ?" 

"Don't  be  silly,  Dick.  Sixteen!  And  so  painfully  shy! 
And  in  the  twentieth  century." 

"She  should  be  exhibited  as  a  freak." 

She  leaned  forward,  resting  her  chin  on  her  hand,  elbow 
on  knee. 

"I'm  very  much  in  earnest,  Dick,"  she  said. 

"I  know,  dear.  I  wish  I  could  see  some  way  to  help 
you." 

She  smiled  at  him;  the  people  on  whom  Marcia  smiled 
invariably  adored  her. 

6? 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"You  were  snubbed  in  that  quarter  once,"  he  reminded 
her. 

"Yes;  nearly  eight  years  ago!  And  I  took  the  snub, 
and  left  that  poor  mite  to  her  fate.  I  feel  now  that  I  was 
horribly  selfish,  Dick.  We  were  selfish  in  those  days, 
weren't  we  ?" 

She  was  laughing  softly. 

"In  that  sense,  I'm  still  selfish,"  he  said,  unabashed. 

"She  let  me  see  so  very  plainly  that  I  was  not  wanted, 
that  she  wished  that  wet  night  to  be  the  end,  as  it  was  the 
beginning,  of  our  acquaintanceship.  And,  of  course,  it's 
rather  a  difficult  position." 

She  rose  and  paced  the  room  again;  it  was  a  way  she 
had  when  agitated. 

"Oh,  how  can  I  leave  that  child  in  that  atmosphere?" 
she  broke  out  suddenly,  the  motherliness  that  was  such  a 
large  part  of  her  nature  making  the  matter  a  grave  one  to 
her.  "To  live  in  the  dark  like  that.  How  will  she  be  fit 
to  meet  her  life  ?  How  will  she  understand  ?  Her  sensi- 
tiveness, timidity,  shyness,  all  encouraged  in  that  unnatural 
soil,  till  they  grow  out  of  all  proportion — overpower  all  the 
healthy  faculties  of  her  nature.  Trifles  will  be  gigantic 
troubles  to  her!  She  will  never  understand  enjoyment,  as 
the  young  are  meant  to  understand  it.  There  will  be 
drawbacks  always.  Her  mind  will  be  filled  with  dream- 
people.  If  she  ever  meets  real  people — later  on — they  will 
disappoint  her  horribly.  For  she  has  imagination — and 
humor,  poor  little  soul.  I  saw  it  in  her  eyes — her  mouth. 
Humor  in  that  house!  The  pity  of  it!  And  refinement. 
It  is  a  delicate,  refined  little  face.  What  will  she  do  when 
her  mother  dies  ?  They  mix  with  no  one,  from  what  I 
hear.  I  can  see  the  years  going  on,  till  the  child  is  a 

68 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

young-looking  old  maid,  almost  as  innocent  and  inexpe- 
rienced as  she  is  now;  then  her  mother  will  die."  She 
broke  off  abruptly.  She  came  and  stood  before  him. 
"Dick,  didn't  you  once  meet  a  cousin  of  John  Fielding's  ?" 

"Yes.  Stayed  at  Fernhill  with  him  once,  years  ago. 
Moberley  had  known  his  people,  or  something,  and  the 
old  lady  asked  him  down.  Awful  conceited  ass.  He 
came  into  the  property  when  John  Fielding  was  drowned. 
That's  about  sixteen  years  ago,  I  think,  and  he's  never 
had  anything  to  do  with  his  cousin's  widow  and  the  child. 
I  don't  fancy  he'll  be  much  help,  my  dear." 

"He  doesn't  sound  particularly  hopeful.  I  think  I  will 
leave  him  out.  But  I  shall  try  to  do  something  for  that 
child." 

She  did  try. 

Susan  was  grim,  almost  rude.  Marcia's  beauty,  her 
tact,  made  no  impression  upon  her;  but  she  compelled  her 
thoughts  out  of  a  groove,  and  the  result  was  that  Audrey 
was  allowed  about  once  a  month  to  spend  a  day  at  the 
Hall. 

It  is  difficult  to  estimate  what  those  days  meant  to  her. 

They  did  her  an  almost  incalculable  amount  of  good. 
That  her  mother,  although  allowing  them,  disapproved 
strongly  she  made  evident  by  the  firm  silence  she  main- 
tained on  the  subject  of  the  Hall  and  its  occupants.  Re- 
pelled by  her  attitude,  Audrey  took  refuge  in  a  silence  as 
complete  as  Susan's.  She  was  too  young  and  too  much 
in  awe  of  her  mother  to  understand  how  her  silence  hurt 
and  galled. 

To  Susan,  narrow-minded,  fiercely  jealous,  it  meant 
only  one  thing — that  Audrey  did  not  consider  her  worthy 
to  hear  of  her  new  friends.  On  those  nights  when  the 

69 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

girl,  bright-eyed,  came  back  from  the  Hall,  Susan  suffered 
terribly.  She  saw,  with  obstinate  clearness,  the  day  ap- 
proaching when  Audrey  would  finally  give  her  up;  she 
was  sure  now  that  the  child  was  ashamed  of  her.  The 
maternal  instinct  in  her,  so  strong  and  fierce  that  it  made 
a  tragic  thing  of  her  life,  blinded  her  to  all  reason.  She 
had  married  late  in  life.  She  had  grown  up  on  a  small 
farm,  the  only  child  of  austere,  very  religious,  parents. 
Up  to  when  she  was  nearly  forty  years  of  age  her  life  had 
been  a  narrow,  practical  one,  full  of  hard  work  and  hard 
religion.  But  from  her  earliest  years  there  had  been  one 
inconsistency  in  her  nature  that  had  foreshadowed  the 
future.  It  was  an  instinct,  immature,  not  understood,  but 
the  strongest  feature  in  her  character — an  instinct  that  led 
her  to  love  everything  young.  To  satisfy  that  instinct — 
and  for  that  alone — she  would  forsake  the  narrow  and 
rigid  path  of  unswerving  duty  and  honesty  which  she 
always  trod.  She,  who  ordinarily  was  of  too  practical  a 
nature  to  have  much  imagination,  would  invent  plausible 
reasons  why  the  young  things  on  the  farm  should  not  be 
killed;  and  she  would  present  these  reasons  to  her  parents 
with  an  eloquence,  a  subtlety  born  of  the  instinct  strong 
within  her.  And  in  her  most  rigid  self-analysis  a  curious 
blindness  took  possession  of  her  where  this  instinct  was 
concerned:  it  was  as  if  the  strength  of  it  was  so  great 
that  it  sucked  all  life  from  the  conscientious  scruples  by 
which  all  her  other  actions  were  governed.  She  never  saw 
that  in  the  cause  of  the  young  things  she  swerved  aside 
from  the  strict  honesty  that  was  hers  by  nature  and  up- 
bringing. 

She  was  thirty-eight  years  old  when  her  child  was  born, 
and  it  was  then  that  the  instinct  materialized  into  sudden, 

70 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

almost  fierce,  life.  She  was  like  a  wild  creature-;  she  could 
almost  have  slain  the  nurse  who  took  the  child  from  her; 
but  in  the  hard  years  of  her  life  she  had  learned  self-con- 
trol, and  it  was  only  her  eyes  that  betrayed  the  passionate 
jealousy  that  raged  within  her.  She  longed  so  fiercely,  so 
strenuously  to  be  strong  and  well,  to  let  no  hands  but  her 
own  touch  the  child,  that  she  worked  herself  into  a  fever, 
and  for  weeks  was  very  ill. 

Marcia  Barrington,  returning  to  the  Hall  after  her  visit 
to  Susan,  said,  thoughtfully: 

"Dick,  there  is  tragedy  in  that  little  woman's  face. 
And  in  spite  of  her  rudeness  I  like  her." 


CHAPTER  X 

OH!    She's  so  ugly!"  sobbed  Bobbie. 
They  stood  and  eyed  her  wearily. 

Bobbie  lay,  fat  and  obstinate,  face  downward  upon  the 
floor,  and  slowly  there  grew  around  her  a  widening  patch 
of  wet. 

Jimmy  said,  thoughtfully: 

"She's  a  peninsula;  soon  she'll  be  an  island." 

"James,"  Martin  responded,  "this  isn't  the  time  for 
epigrams.  You're  a  feminine.  What  are  we  to  do  ?" 

"She'll  very  likely  have  rheumatic  fever,"  Jimmy  re- 
sponded, gloomily. 

"Or  ammonia,"  Tommy  further  suggested. 

"Bobbie,  get  up  at  once!"  Martin  said,  sternly. 

"Poor  ole  Bob  '11  yell  if  you  touch  her!"  warned  that 
young  lady,  as  he  drew  near  once  more. 

Therein  lay  her  power,  and  she  knew  it;  she  was  quite 
aware  of  the  fact  that  no  one  would  risk  her  yells  with  her 
mother  lying  down,  with  a  bad  headache,  in  the  room 
beneath  the  nursery. 

"Isn't  there  any  one  else  in  the  house  she'd  allow  to 
touch  her  ?"  Martin  turned  to  Jimmy,  his  blue  eye 
baleful. 

Jimmy  shook  her  head. 

"Most  of  them  have  gone  to  nurse's  cousin's  funeral, 
you  see.  There's  cook,  but  she's  worse  than  Mary." 

72 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Won't  have  ugly  old  things!"  sobbed  Bobbie. 

"Well,  I'm  sick  of  this,"  Martin  declared.  "Let's  leave 
her,  boys!  If  she  has  rheumatic  fever,  it  will  serve  her 
right." 

They  followed  him  from  the  room,  eying  him  dis- 
approvingly. Tender-hearted  Dickie  voiced  the  disap- 
proval in  trembling  tones  of  woe: 

"Cousin  Martin,  she's  the  youngest  in  the  family!" 

"Shut  up,  and  wait,"  replied  Martin. 

They  waited  breathlessly,  ears  at  door,  till  a  voice 
reached  them  from  within: 

"Silly  ole  things,  lis'nin'  at  the  door!" 

Then  Martin,  with  an  exclamation,  vaulted  down  the 
stairs  and  into  the  garden. 

"Now  we  can  talk  above  a  whisper,"  he  said.  "Of 
all  the  spoilt  little  wretches — 

"She  isn't,"  interposed  Jimmy,  always  loyal.  "If  you 
were  used  to  mother,  you  wouldn't  like  ordin'ry  people — 

Martin  interrupted. 

"We'll  go  down  to  the  gate  in  the  wall  and  ask  the  first 
pretty  girl  who  passes  to  help  us." 

"Oh,  Cousin  Martin,  won't  you  have  to  be  introduced 
first  ?" 

"Oh,  Cousin  Jimmy,  you  wait  and  see!" 

With  Dickie  swung  high  on  his  shoulders,  he  raced  down 
the  sunlit  path  to  the  gate  in  the  wall. 

"There  are  very  few  pretty  girls  in  Elsham,"  Jimmy  re- 
minded him,  in  a  fastidious  tone. 

"You  don't  know  my  luck,  old  boy!" 

He  flung  open  the  door,  then  glanced  down  with  a  smile 
at  his  small  cousin. 

For  a  girl  was  passing  by,  and  it  was  evident  that  even 

73 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

the  fastidious  Jimmy  must  include  her  in  the  category  of 
pretty  girls. 

"Oh,  it's  Audrey!" 

"Will  you  introduce  me,  James  ?" 

Audrey's  days  at  the  Hall  stood  her  in  good  stead  now. 
The  whirl  back  to  nine  years  ago  was  disconcerting.  Once 
more  she  met  the  gay  blue  eye  of  Prince  Charming,  once 
more  she  listened  to  his  pleasant  voice,  and  only  a  faint 
pink  flickering  in  her  cheek  showed  her  perturbation.  He 
could  not  know  that  she  was  wont  to  look,  with  an  innocent 
regard,  more  directly  into  faces.  Now  her  lashes  cast 
demure  shadows  on  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  Audrey,  Bobbie  really  is  too  tiresome!  We  are 
most  tremendously  worried!" 

The  lashes  lifted,  and  Audrey's  eyes  rested  with  relief 
on  Jimmy's  face. 

"We  want  you  to  help  us  out  of  a  difficulty,  Miss  Field- 
ing," Martin  explained.  "I'm  left  in  charge  of  four  unruly 
cousins.  .  .  ." 

"Mother  has  a  most  horrible  headache,"  put  in  Jimmy. 

"Nurse  and  Ellen  and  some  of  the  others  have  gone  to 
nurse's  cousin's  funeral,"  supplemented  Tommy. 

From  Martin's  shoulder  came  a  thoughtful  little  pipe-' 

"They're  going  to  have  a  lovely  'At  Home'  after  it." 

"All  went  well,"  Martin  pursued,  "till  Bobbie — you 
know  Bobbie  ?" 

"Yes." 

It  was  a  somewhat  small  "yes,"  and  it  was  directed  to 
Jimmy,  but  still  it  was  an  answer. 

"Really,  Martin,  how  absurd  you  are!"  observed  Jimmy, 
sweetly.  "Why,  she's  our  greatest  friend!" 

Martin  was  enthralled  at  the  smile  that  overspread 

74 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

the  demure  little  face  then:  he  forgot  to  go  on  with  his 
tale.  Jimmy  finished  the  explanation  in  her  own  drastic 
way. 

"That  idiotic  Bobbie  sat  on  the  ground  and  sang  'Rule 
Britannia'  right  through,  so  we  began  to  play  cricket  with- 
out her,  and  then  she  started  howling  and  rolled  into  the 
lake.  So  tiresome  of  her!  And  now  she's  lying  on  the 
floor  in  the  nursery,  and  if  we  touch  her  she  says  she'll 
yell,  and  mother's  in  the  room  underneath,  and  she'll  have 
rheumatic  fever — " 

"Or  ammonia,"  from  Tommy. 

"And  we're  all  shockingly  worried,"  finished  Jimmy. 

"Spoilt  little  monkey!"  annotated  Martin. 

"She's  the  very  youngest  in  the  family,"  Dickie  remind- 
ed him,  her  eye  reproachful. 

"I  will  see  what  I  can  do,"  Audrey  said  to  Jimmy. 

She  struck  a  quaint  note  in  that  garden  on  that  day  in 
May.  Everywhere  there  was  a  wealth  of  color :  the  numer- 
ous little  paths  were  bordered  with  great  bushes  of  rhodo- 
dendrons, now  a  mass  of  bloom,  the  colors  ranging  from 
the  deep  old-fashioned  purple  to  palest  pinks  and  whites; 
to  the  right  of  the  gate  there  was  a  large  bed  of  brilliant- 
hued  azaleas.  In  the  wealth  of  color  Audrey  moved 
quietly  forward.  There  was  no  scrap  of  color  about  her, 
save  for  the  red  lights  in  her  hair.  A  slim  figure  in  gray 
and  white,  she  went  into  the  house  and  up  to  the  nursery, 
where  Bobby  lay  in  a  pool  of  water. 

Now,  when  Bobbie  was  seized  with  these  fits  of  naughti- 
ness no  one  could  manage  her  but  Marcia.  But  on  the 
present  occasion  she  had  been  ruminating,  and  ruminating 
alone  in  a  pool  of  water  is  conducive  to  repentance. 

Bobbie  was  chilly  and  very  wet  and  heartily  sick  of  it 
e  75 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

all.  So  that  when  they  entered  the  nursery,  though  she 
still  lay  face  downward  on  the  floor,  a  deep  blue  eye 
peeped  round  at  them,  and  Bobbie,  always  adorable, 
beamed  alluringly. 

"Holloa,  Audrey!"  she  observed,  with  cheerful  insou- 
ciance. 

But  Audrey  was  sufficiently  the  child  of  her  mother's 
training  to  force  herself  to  utter  a  shy — "You  are  a  very 
naughty  little  girl." 

Bobbie  sat  up  and  looked  at  her. 

"Oh,  dear,  poor  ole  Bob's  so  wet!"  she  cooed,  pathet- 
ically. 

"I  must  change  her  clothes  at  once.  Jimmy,  show  me 
where  to  find  fresh  things.  Quickly,  dear." 

During  the  course  of  the  changing,  Audrey  was  treated 
to  a  good  many  whole-hearted  hugs. 

"Bob's  darlin    ole  Audrey!     Bob's  lovilly  ole  Audrey!" 

Audrey  hugged  back  again. 

Once  she  asked: 

"Are  you  sorry  you  were  so  naughty?" 

"Oh  yes.  Let's  come  and  play  cricket,"  was  Bobbie's 
cheerful  response. 

But  Audrey  would  not  stay;  she  said  she  must  go  home. 
She  wanted  to  get  away,  to  think  over  this  sudden  meeting 
with  the  Prince  Charming  of  nine  years  ago.  He  was 
bigger  and  browner  now;  his  voice  was  deeper,  but  he 
had  altered  very  little.  She  had  never  met  him  again 
during  those  nine  years,  though  he  had  stayed  sometimes 
at  the  Hall.  On  one  occasion  she  had  chosen  deliberately 
not  to  meet  him.  She  had,  in  an  agonizing  access  of  shy- 
ness at  the  thought  of  seeing  him  again,  given  up  one  of 
those  wonderful  monthly  visits  of  hers.  That  had  been 

76 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

about  eighteen  months  before  this,  when  she  had  only 
been  to  the  Hall  a  few  times.  Having  heard  that  he  was 
staying  there,  she  had  said  she  did  not  want  to  go  that 
day.  That  was  all.  Scrupulously  honest,  and  unversed 
in  the  art  of  useful  fibbing,  she  could  frame  no  excuse. 
But  the  conflict  between  her  longing  to  go,  her  longing  to 
see  him,  and  her  shyness  made  her  pale  enough  to  render 
further  excuse  unnecessary.  Susan  sent  word  that  she  was 
not  very  well. 

And  now  she  had  met — had  spoken  to  him  again!  He 
did  not  remember  her.  Why  should  he  ? 

At  nineteen  Audrey  was  of  medium  height  and  very 
slim.  Her  face  was  small  and  soft,  and  looked  a  little 
delicate.  Her  features  were  irregular  and  of  no  particular 
beauty,  except  her  eyes,  which  were  very  beautiful.  It 
was  a  gentle  little  face;  a  trifle  wistful  in  repose,  but  with 
a  habit  of  brightening  suddenly  that  was  very  attractive. 
Her  hair  was  another  beauty;  it  was  a  ruddy  brown  in 
color,  soft  and  thick,  with  a  loose  wave  running  through 
it.  She  wore  it  turned  back  from  her  forehead  and  dressed 
simply  in  the  nape  of  her  neck,  it  having  risen  to  the  glory 
of  being  "done  up"  only  within  the  last  few  months. 

Susan  allowed  no  fripperies.  Audrey's  frocks  and  hats, 
made  and  trimmed  by  herself,  were  of  a  Quakerish  sim- 
plicity. But,  to  Susan's  mingled  pride  and  disapproba- 
tion, she  never  looked  dowdy.  Her  feminine  instinct  had 
profited  by  her  observation  of  Marcia's  gowns,  of  her  way 
of  wearing  them.  Audrey  possessed  the  gift  of  knowing 
how  to  put  on  her  clothes;  there  was  cunning  in  her  small 
fingers.  Susan  eyed  uneasily  the  unmistakable  "air,"  as 
Amelia  called  it,  that  there  was  about  the  child,  but  it 
was  an  intangibility  to  which  she  could  hardly  make  ob- 

77 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

jection,  and  there  was,  besides,  that  covert  pride  that  she 
could  not  stifle. 

Audrey  walked  home  through  the  spring-filled  lanes, 
and  concocted  a  dream  conversation,  wherein  she  said 
many  smart  things  to  Martin  Jocelyn,  and  was  altogether 
exceedingly  cool  and  grown-up. 

"That,"  said  Audrey,  "is  how  I  will  speak  to  him  next 
time!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

DICKIE,  did  you  break  that  vase  ?" 
There  was  a  gasp,  a  quiver,  and,  in  the  same  breath, 
a  wildly  impulsive  and  frightened  denial.  Guilt  was  writ- 
ten quite  plainly  on  the  little,  terrified  face.  Beyond  that 
trembling  "No,"  Dickie  took  no  means  to  hide  her  guilt. 
She  stood  and  watched  her  mother  with  great,  terrified 
eyes.  A  little  spasm  contracted  Marcia's  mouth  for  a 
moment. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  quietly,  and  turned  away  to  her 
writing-table. 

For  a  minute  there  was  silence  in  the  room.  Dickie 
did  not  move.  She  watched  her  mother  as  if  fascinated. 
Marcia  picked  up  her  pen-holder  and  studied  it.  She 
put  it  down,  and,  without  looking  round,  said,  in  the  same 
quiet  voice: 

"  Perhaps  Euphemia  knocked  it  down.  Run  away  now, 
Dickie." 

Dickie  tried  to  obey  her.  She  moved  one  leg  forward, 
then  stood  still  again. 

Marcia  turned  round,  and  met  the  child's  wide  gaze. 

"I  think  nurse  might  take  you  all  to  the  White  House 
farm  to-day,"  she  said,  pleasantly. 

Dickie  moved  slowly  down  the  long  room.  At  the  door 
she  stood  still.  Marcia  was  watching  her.  Their  eyes 
met. 

79 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Dickie  was  too  young  to  understand  the  expression  of 
hope  in  her  mother's  eyes;  nor  could  she  understand 
when,  after  a  minute,  she  began  to  turn  the  door-handle, 
why  the  light  in  her  mother's  face  was  quenched  sud- 
denly. 

When  the  child  had  gone,  Marcia  went  slowly  across  to 
the  mantel-shelf  and  stood  there,  very  still,  looking  down 
into  the  fire. 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and,  hand-in-hand,  in  burst 
Jimmy  and  Tommy. 

"Oh,  Mother,  isn't  it  quite  too  queer  ?"  piped  Jimmy,  in 
an  agitated  little  voice.  "Dickie  says  she  doesn't  want  to 
come  to  the  farm!" 

"She  says  she  won't"  annotated  Tommy. 

Marcia  put  out  her  hand  and  drew  Jimmy  to  her. 

"She  need  not  go  if  she  doesn't  wish,  sweetheart.  Run 
and  let  nurse  get  you  ready." 

Jimmy  seized  her  mother's  hand  and  hugged  it  up  to 
her  cheek. 

"I'm  shockingly  worried,  dearest,"  she  sighed. 

"Oh,  shocking!"  supplemented  her  echo,  big-eyed. 

"Dickie  chooses  to  stay  at  home,"  Marcia  reminded 
them,  with  a  trace  of  coldness  in  her  tone. 

"But — but  how  queer,  dearest." 

"Well,  I  want  to  write  now,  Jimmy.  Tell  Dickie  she 
need  not  go."  She  bent  and  kissed  them.  "And  tell 
nurse  to  put  on  your  white  flannel  suits — the  wind  is 
quite  cold." 

They  turned  and  left  the  room. 

Marcia  heard  them  laughing  and  talking  with  their 
father  in  the  hall;  heard  him  going  up-stairs  with  them. 
Presently  he  came  into  the  room. 

80 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Idle  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning!"  he  ejaculated, 
raising  his  eyebrows. 

She  sighed. 

"I've  just  failed  Jimmy  and  Tommy  horribly,"  she 
said. 

"You?" 

She  smiled  an  oddly  shy  little  smile  of  pleasure  at  the 
incredulity  in  his  tone. 

"I  have,"  she  reasserted.  "Dick,  did  you  go  into  the 
nursery  just  now  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  did  you  notice  Dickie?" 

"Yes.  They're  all  noticing  her.  I  don't  think  she's 
well,  poor  little  soul.  It  appears  she  doesn't  want  to  go  to 
the  White  House  farm.  Jimmy  and  Tommy  are  holding 
forth  new-laid  eggs  and  fresh-borned  calves  and  lambs  as 
inducements,  but  she  won't  go,  and  she  looks  queer." 

"It's  her  conscience,  not  her  body,  that  is  troubling  her. 
She  told  me  a  falsehood  just  now." 

He  glanced  at  her  quickly.     "A  bad  one  ?" 

Her  lips  tightened.     "All  falsehoods  are  bad." 

There  was  a  little  silence. 

"She  told  it  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,"  Marcia  said, 
picking  up  her  pen  again,  "before  she  had  time  to  think 
— her  nervous  timidity  frightened  it  out  of  her.  She  will 
surfer  terribly  for  it,  poor  mite." 

Dick  looked  wretched. 

"Couldn't  you  have  a  talk  with  her?" 

"She  will  have  to  tell  me  the  truth  first,"  Marcia  said, 
firmly. 

Dick  rubbed  his  aristocratic-looking  nose,  but  said  noth- 
ing- 
Si 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"  I  haven't  written  those  letters  for  you  yet,"  she  said,  in 
a  lighter  tone.  "I  won't  be  long." 

"No  hurry,"  he  said,  and  went  out. 

The  children  came  in  to  say  good-bye. 

Bobbie  stood  at  Marcia's  knee  and  began  to  sing. 

"Come  along,  Bobbie,"  Jimmy  and  Tommy  besought 
from  the  doorway.  "Oh,  do  come!" 

"Bob  goin'  to  finiff  song  to  Mummy,"  Bobbie  inter- 
rupted her  singing  to  say  with  great  dignity,  then  re- 
sumed— 

"  Lon    may  he  liver  reign — 
Dud  save  our  King!     Amen" 

When  they  had  gone  Marcia  wrote  assiduously,  but  every 
now  and  then  she  glanced  swiftly  at  the  clock,  and  she  was 
restless.  After  awhile  she  rose  and  went  up  to  the  nursery; 
she  opened  the  door  and  looked  in. 

A  maid  sat  by  one  of  the  windows  sewing.  A  white 
Persian  cat  lay  in  a  patch  of  sunlight  blinking  sleepily. 
Over  on  the  farther  window-seat  Dickie  sat,  huddled  up, 
a  forlorn  white  bundle. 

"Madeline!" 

Dickie  started  nervously,  and  looked  round. 

"Yes,  mother?" 

"Would  you  like  to  come  and  sit  down-stairs  with  me  ?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

She  turned  her  head  away,  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
again. 

"I  don't  think  she's  very  well  this  morning,  ma'am,"  the 
maid  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "She's  that  quiet  and  won't 
play  with  any  of  her  toys— 

82 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Very  well.     You  may  go  now,  Ellen." 

The  maid  gathered  up  her  work  and  left  the  room. 
There  was  a  little  silence;  then  presently  a  voice,  soft, 
irresistible.  "  Dickie,  why  don't  you  want  to  come  down- 
stairs with  me  ?" 

A  pause;  then  a  sudden,  wild  outburst  of  stormy  sobs. 

"I — I — oh,  you  won't  ever  love  me  any  more!  If — if 
you  knew — you  wouldn't — ask  me  to — come  down — ' 

"Tell  me,  Dickie.     Perhaps  I  guess." 

She  did  not  touch  the  child:  she  stood  waiting. 

"Oh,  no,  no!  Else  you — you — wouldn't — have  me — 
near — you!" 

"  Dickie,  be  brave."    The  soft  voice  was  very  persuasive. 

"Mummy — oh,  Mummy — I — I  told  a — story — ' 

"What  was  it,  Dickie?" 

"I — I  broke  the  vase!" 

Then  at  last,  and  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief,  Marcia's 
arms  went  round  the  soft  little  body. 

"  Darling,  don't  cry  so!  See,  I  love  you  still.  You  have 
been  brave  now,  and  confessed — 

Presently  the  sobs  ceased;  she  gave  a  little  shudder,  and 
looked  up  piteously  into  her  mother's  face. 

"  Dickie,  what  made  you  do  it  ?  Are  you  afraid  of 
me?" 

The  poor  little  tear-stained  face  crinkled  up  in  weary 
wonder.  "I  don't  know,  Mummy!  I — I  just — it  just 
came  out — some  way — oh,  Mother,  I  am  such  a  very  horrid 
little  girl!  I — I  wish  I  was  some  one  else." 

"No,  sweet,  you  must  just  be  yourself,  and  make  your- 
self brave  and  true  always." 

After  awhile,  with  a  flush  of  deep  shame,  "You — you 
won't  ever — chust  me — again,"  quavered  out  wretchedly. 

83 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"I  shall  trust  you  always,  Dickie" — there  was  a  tiny  pause 

-"unless  you  tell  me  I  have  been  wrong" — inexorably. 

"But — but" — Dickie  leaned  her  head  tiredly  against 
Marcia's  shoulder — "stories  are — are  ter'bly  wicked,  aren't 
they  ?" 

"Yes,  Dickie." 

"You — you  think  a  little  girl  that  tells  stories — is — is — 
awful  bad  ?" 

"Yes,  Dickie." 

A  shiver  went  through  the  slim  body. 

"But  I  think" — the  voice  was  low  and  soft — "a  little 
girl  who  has  told  one  story — 

"There — there  was  the  others."  The  words  dragged 
out  slowly,  painfully,  with  the  queer  insistent  honesty  that 
was  part  of  Dickie  when  she  was  herself. 

"Well,  then,  a  little  girl  who  has  told  three  stories,  and 
has  been  brave  enough  to  confess,  will  never  tell  another, 
and  so  she  isn't  a  little  girl  that  tells  stories  at  all!" 

"Oh,  Mother i"     Dickie  clung  to  her. 

"She  is  a  truthful  little  girl  who  can't  bear  stones.  She 
thinks  they  are  mean  and  bad,  doesn't  she,  Dickie  ?" 

**  Oh,  awful  mean  and  bad,  Mother." 

The  nursery  cat  rose  and  stepped  daintily  across  the 
floor  to  them.  He  jumped  up  onto  the  window-seat, 
and  rubbed  himself  against  Madeline's  arm. 

"Mr.  Jinks  wouldn't  speak  to  me — before,"  she  whis- 
pered, shamefacedly,  "and  he's  purring  very  loud  now." 

Presently  a  tentative  little  voice  broke  the  silence. 

"Mother,  are  you — quite — pufjeckly  sure  you'll  chust 
me  another  time '?" 

"Dickie,  I  shall  never  remember  that  you  told  this  story. 
I  shall  trust  you  exactly  as  I  trust  Gwendoline — as  I  trust 

84 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

your    father  —  as    I  trust    every    one   who    is   true    and 
brave." 

Dickie  gave  a  little  tired  sigh  of"  relief*.  Presently  she 
fell  asleep. 

Marcia  rose  and  carried  her  into  her  bedroom,  and 
laid  her  on  the  bed.  Dickie  stirred,  but  did  not  wake. 
Lying  there,  her  face  pale  and  tear-stained,  there  was  a 
fragile  delicacy  about  her  that  tugged  at  Marcia's  heart. 
She  turned  away  and  went  down  to  the  study,  where  Dick 
sat  immersed  in  work. 

"Dick,  I  want  you  a  minute." 

"Yes,  dear?"     He  put  down  his  pen  and  rose. 

A  warm  smile  touched  her  eyes,  her  lips. 

"You're  very  good,"  she  said,  simply.  "Do  you  mind 
leaving  your  work  for  a  minute  ?" 

"Not  for  you,"  he  said,  gallantly. 

"  I  want  you  " — her  face  lit  humorously — "  I  want  you  to 
come  into  the  morning-room  and  smash  something." 

"Eh?  Oh,  certainly.  But  in  cold  blood—  Can't  I 
get  warmed  up  some  way  first  ?" 

"Have  you  read  Harrod's  speech  at  Birmingham  yet  ?" 

"No.     Hadn't  time.     Will  that  warm  me  up  ?" 

She  nodded,  and,  picking  up  a  newspaper,  handed  it  to 
him. 

He  began  to  read,  smilingly;  the  smile  died;  he  frowned. 

"Fool!"  he  muttered.     "Snob!" 

Presently  he  flung  the  paper  down. 

"Good  heavens,  what  a  paltry  snob  the  man  is!  Can't 
you  see  it  all  through  ?  And  the  worst  of  it  is  he  has  a 
certain  plausibility —  » 

"Oh,  he's  well  oiled,"  she  agreed. 

He  glanced  at  her  with  an  appreciative  chuckle. 

85 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Now  come — while  you're  warm,"  she  said.  "You  can 
fancy  the  vase  is  Harrod's  head." 

"  All  right."  He  opened  the  door  for  her.  "  But  why  this 
wanton  smashing  of  furniture  ?" 

"I  want  to  show  Dickie  that  I  trust  her.  She  has  con- 
fessed. She — oh,  she  suffered  horribly.  I  shall  manage 
so  that  she  is  alone  in  the  room,  do  you  see  ?  And  I  shall 
ask  her —  Later  you  must  come  in  and  mention  that  you 
broke  it.  Do  you  see  ?" 

He  nodded,  and  followed  her  into  the  morning-room. 

"What  shall  I  smash?"  he  queried.  "I  say,  Marcia, 
it's  in  a  good  cause,  you  know!  Shall  we  sacrifice  Aunt 
Mary's  china  dog  ?" 

"Oh,  Dick,  what  a  brilliant  idea!" 

"Where  did  you  hide  it  last,  my  dear  ?" 

"There,  behind  that  bowl — I  can  see  his  horrid  yellow 
tail  sticking  out." 

He  pulled  the  creature  out,  and  eyed  its  smug  face  with 
some  satisfaction. 

"Edward  Henry  Harrod,  I  hurl  you  to  destruction!" 

There  was  a  crash,  and  the  dog  had  vanished  into  a  hun- 
dred bits  of  gorgeous  yellow  china. 

"  What  a  baby  you  are,"  Marcia  laughed.  "You  know 
you  did  get  some  enjoyment  out  of  the  Edward  Henry 
Harrod  idea!  Don't  deny  it.  And  now  I  really  will 
finish  those  letters  for  you.  I've  only  two  left  to  do.  I'll 
let  you  know  when  I  want  you." 

A  little  later,  when  she  looked  into  the  bedroom  again, 
she  found  Dickie  awake. 

"Come,  sweet.     I'm  writing  in  the  morning-room." 

On  the  stairs  she  paused.  She  put  her  hand  on  Dickie's 
silky  head. 

86 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"You  go  down  into  the  morning-room,  Dickie.  I  will 
be  with  you  presently." 

She  watched  the  child  trot  down  the  stairs  and  turn 
into  the  morning-room  with  a  curious  expression  on  her 
face.  Then  she  followed  her,  but  in  the  hall  turned  aside 
and  entered  Dick's  study. 

"Dick,  will  you  come  into  the  morning-room  in  about 
ten  minutes'  time,  and  mention  casually  that  you  broke 
the  dog  ?  I  have  sent  Dickie  in  alone." 

"All  right,  my  dear."  He  glanced  at  her  doubtfully. 
"  Isn't  it  rather — drastic  ?" 

She  smiled  rather  wearily. 

"Yes.  Falsehood  requires  drastic  measures.  And  the 
reward,  Dick!" 

She  hurried  into  the  hall. 

In  the  morning-room  Dickie  stood  by  the  fireplace,  hor- 
rified into  muteness,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  fragments  of 
Edward  Henry  Harrod.  Marcia  had  given  her  those  extra 
minutes  of  anguish,  had  given  them  deliberately,  and  it 
had  cost  her  a  great  deal. 

She  came  in,  crunched  unflinchingly  a  piece  of  china 
beneath  her  foot,  looked  down. 

"Why,  it  is  Aunt  Mary's  dog!  Did  you  break  it, 
Dickie  ?" 

Dickie's  mouth  opened,  but  no  sound  came;  she  tried 
again. 

"N-no." 

"  Perhaps  the  wind  blew  it  down." 

"I — I — oh,  Mummy,  I  didn't — truly,  really  I  didn't— 
oh,  I  didn't  break  it!" 

Marcia  broke  in  on  the  frantic  little  voice. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Dickie?  Of  course  you 

87 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

didn't,  since  you  say  so.  Come  and  sit  on  my  lap, 
sweet." 

Dickie  ran  at  her  with  a  queer  little  cry. 

"Oh,  Mother,  I  just  'dore  you — so — so  I  can't  breathe!" 

Marcia  picked  her  up  with  a  sudden  warm  closing  of  her 
arms  about  her.  She  began  to  talk  about  a  forthcoming 
picnic.  Presently  the  door  opened  and  Dick  came  in. 

"Hulloa,  chick,  so  you  stayed  at  home  to  be  cuddled, 
did  you  ?  By  the  way,  Marcia,  I  smashed  that  beautiful 
china  dog.  Don't  scold  me!" 

Dickie  gave  a  sudden  shrill  burst  of  laughter  and  butted 
her  head  into  Marcia's  shoulder. 

"Oh,  naughty  daddy!"  she  cried,  excitedly. 

He  stooped  and  took  her  up  into  his  arms. 

"Unkind  Dickie!" 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"I  didn't  mean  it,  Dad!     Oh,  I  really-truly  didn't!" 

That  night  Marcia  sat  thoughtful;  she  was  pondering 
upon  a  fervent  whisper  that  had  accompanied  Dickie's 
good-night : 

"Oh,  Mother,  what  would  I  do  if  I  had  Audrey's  mother 
for  a  mother  'stead  of  you  ?" 


CHAPTER  XII 

"'F)HCEBE!     Phcebe!      And  who  the  deuce  may  she 

1  be?'"  quoted  Martin,  lazily.  He  pulled  Euphe- 
mia's  silky  ear.  "Phemie!  Phemie!  Who  the  deuce 
shall  I  deem  ye  ?"  He  rolled  over  on  the  lawn  and  looked 
up  into  Marcia's  face.  "  Did  you  hear  that  ?  I'm  grow- 
ing into  a  poet." 

Marcia  looked  up  dreamily  from  her  book. 

"If  ever  anything  could  make  you  a  poet,  it  would  be 
this!"  She  waved  her  hand  around,  indicating  more 
especially  the  lovely  great  bushes  of  lilac — white,  purple, 
palest  mauve. 

"Your  tone  is  sceptical,  Marcia,  which  is  unkind.  If 
anything  could  have  made  me  a  poet,  it  would  have  been 
you." 

"I've  heard  that  before." 

"Lately?" 

"Yes,  quite  lately." 

He  sat  up. 

"Then  I  consider  it  my  duty  to  tell  Dick." 

"Oh,  he's  the  worst  of  them  all." 

"  Really  ?  How  disgraceful!  Your  own  husband,  Mar- 
cia! Can't  you  get  a  divorce  ?" 

"The  energy  and  perseverance  of  my  youngest-born," 
said  Marcia,  amusedly,  "give  promise  of  great  achieve- 
ments in  the  future." 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

A  few  yards  away,  Bobbie,  in  a  pink  smock,  was  trying 
to  stand  upon  her  head.  She  had  been  trying  for  a  good 
while,  and  each  endeavor  ended  in  a  soft  and  solid  thud; 
whereupon  she  lay  where  she  had  fallen,  and  her  laughter 
pealed  out — shrill,  baby  laughter,  that  found  exquisite  fun 
in  the  situation. 

Every  now  and  then  Euphemia  waddled  off  after  a  fat, 
kicking  leg,  which  caused  more  laughter. 

Euphemia  was  a  dog.  Beyond  that  indisputable  fact  no 
one  ventured  to  label  her.  She  had  appeared  at  the  Hall; 
on  the  occasion  of  her  appearance  she  had  seemed  to  look 
upon  Jimmy  as  her  mistress.  That  was  all  that  was  known 
to  the  elders  about  the  matter.  Other  animals  had  ap- 
peared in  similar  manner  on  different  occasions. 

Among  Marcia's  firm  theories  anent  the  up-bringing  of 
children  was  the  imperative  necessity  of  inculcating  a  love 
for  all  animals,  and  a  gentle  treatment  of  them.  So  that 
when  some  animal  with  a  vivid  claim  to  protection — such 
as  a  tin  can  tied  to  his  tail,  or  an  ostentatious  display  of 
ribs,  or  a  neglected  skin  disease — appeared  at  the  Hall,  she 
could  not  very  well  turn  it  away.  So  she  argued  to  Dick, 
her  soft  heart  taking  refuge  in  that  convenient  inculcation 
in  her  children  of  a  proper  love  for  all  animals.  But  the 
animal  was  relegated,  on  these  occasions,  to  the  stables. 

And  it  was  on  this  matter  that  Euphemia  at  once  showed 
her  superior  intelligence.  Euphemia  refused  to  be  rele- 
gated to  the  stables.  At  that  time,  on  the  occasion  of  her 
first  appearance,  she  had  been  a  forlorn  but  intensely  pict- 
uresque puppy.  That  she  was  also  exceedingly  dirty  in 
no  way  detracted  from  her  charm;  it  merely  added  the 
necessary  touch  of  pathos.  Washed,  brushed,  combed  till 
she  was  limp  with  terror  at  the  awful  experiences  through 

90 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

which  she  was  passing,  Euphemia  still  possessed  sufficient 
strength  of  will  to  crawl  trembling  back  into  the  house 
and  up  to  Jimmy's  bed,  where  she  passed  a  most  com- 
fortable night.  And  there  she  passed  the  succeeding 
nights. 

Euphemia  refused  to  be  a  stable  dog,  so  she  became  a 
member  of  the  household.  Now  at  the  age  of  four  years 
she  was  undeniably  stout,  and  she  continued  to  grow 
stouter.  In  vain  was  she  dieted;  in  vain  was  she  exer- 
cised; her  body  seemed  to  grow  steadily  larger,  just  as  her 
head  seemed  to  grow  smaller.  She  had  beautiful  brown 
eyes,  with  black  smudges  round  them;  long  silky  ears,  a 
silky  fawn  coat,  and  a  wondrous  feathered  tail  that  further 
mystified  such  as  were  bold  enough  to  endeavor  to  trace 
her  ancestry.  The  only  certain  conclusion  at  which  any 
one  ever  arrived  was  that  there  was  bad  blood  in  her 
family  tree  on  one  side,  or  more  probably  on  both.  For 
Euphemia  was  possessed  of  no  morals:  she  stole,  she 
poached,  she  chased  sheep  and  cows,  and  she  cajoled  to 
such  a  diabolical  extent  that  all  her  misdemeanors  were 
forgiven,  and  she  was  spoiled  by  every  one.  She  possessed 
the  artful  and  eminently  useful  faculty  of  convincing  every 
one  that  her  latest  transgression  was  her  last.  No  one, 
seeing  her  abject  misery,  her  cringing  repentance,  could 
doubt  it.  No  one  ever  did.  Beaten,  she  collapsed,  before 
the  first  stroke  fell,  into  a  soft  little  limp  bundle  of  horrible 
woe.  Scolded,  her  liquid  eyes,  her  eloquent  tail,  both  ex- 
pressive of  frightened  adoration,  stopped  the  cruel  words 
that  so  evidently  hurt  overmuch.  And  so  Euphemia  went 
on  her  wicked  way.  She  lorded  it  triumphantly  over  the 
two  beautiful  pointers;  she  never  was  abashed  by  the  con- 
trast between  their  slim  grace  and  her  own  rotundity. 
7  91 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

The  nursery  cat  left  her  severely  alone,  giving  up  with 
dignity  the  best  place  on  the  rug  before  the  fire — a  fact 
which  surprised  everybody,  and  the  riddle  of  which  was 
never  unravelled.  Whether  there  had  been  on  some  occa- 
sion a  fight  in  which  Euphemia  had  come  off  victorious, 
no  one  knew.  But  as  Euphemia  was  an  arrant  little  cow- 
ard, who  fled  screaming  if  a  dog  so  much  as  touched  her, 
it  did  not  seem  likely.  Most  probably  her  cajolery  had 
touched  even  the  self-contained  heart  of  the  nursery  cat, 
as  it  touched  every  one's  else,  and  the  best  place  on  the  rug 
was  the  result. 

Bobbie,  somewhat  breathless  from  her  exertions,  lay, 
her  head  under  a  leg,  and" sang: 

"God  save  our  g'acious  King; 
Long  may  he  liver  reign — 
God  save  our  King!" 

The  breeze  whispered  among  the  lilacs;  the  scent  of  it 
was  wafted  to  the  warm  lawn.  .  .  . 

"'Phoebe!  Phoebe!  Who  the  deuce  may  she  be?'" 
murmured  Martin,  sleepily. 

"Mummy!  Mummy!"  Over  the  lawn,  hand-in-hand, 
the  three  of  them  came.  "Mother,  isn't  it  an  exquisite  day 
for  a  picnic  ?" 

"Why,  dears,  so  it  is!" 

Squeals  of  delight. 

"And  we  needn't  have  nurses  or  Jenkins  or  any  one," 
further  unfolded  Jimmy.  "Martin  can  carry  the  things." 

"Thanks,  sweet  coz." 

"Gorston  woods!     Gorston  woods!"  piped  Dickie. 
92 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Come  on,  boys,  let's  go  and  tell  cook!" 

"She's  in  a  most  beastly  temper,"  Tommy  reminded 
Jimmy,  sadly. 

Jimmy  paused. 

"She  isn't  cross  with  you,  Cousin  Martin,"  she  said, 
suggestively. 

"I  always  had  a  weakness  for  cooks,"  Martin  observed. 
"Lead  on,  boys!" 

As  they  vanished,  Bobbie,  right  way  up  from  an  unsuc- 
cessful somersault,  called  out: 

"Bob's  comin'  too!  I  say,  ole  Martin,  wait  for 
Bob!" 

She  trotted  after  them,  her  pink  cotton  frock  rumpled 
up  round  her  waist,  her  fat  legs  scurrying.  Round  to 
Marcia  came  a  roguish  blue  eye — "Candy-peel — raisins — 
strawbelly  jam!"  And  she  fled,  squealing  with  glee. 

Marcia  sat  on  reading. 

After  awhile  they  came  back. 

"Over  the  wall  we  saw  Audrey,  and  we  asked  her  to 
come  too,  and  she's  coming,  if  her  mother  will  let  her." 

At  half-past  two  Audrey  appeared;  she  was  always 
punctual.  They  were  nearly  ready,  all  except  Marcia. 
She  came  to  Audrey. 

"Do  you  mind  going  on  with  them  first,  dear?  Dick 
wants  me.  I  will  come  on  as  soon  as  possible." 

Audrey  minded  a  good  deal,  but  she  had  advanced  suffi- 
ciently in  her  social  training  to  manage  to  hide  that  she 
minded.  They  started  without  Marcia. 

Euphemia  went  too,  against  Marcia's  advice.  Every  one 
agreed  implicitly  with  every  objection  she  raised.  She 
pointed  out  that  the  way  to  Gorston  woods  lay  past  several 
farms;  that  farms  were  to  Euphemia  merely  glorious  op- 

93 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

portunities  for  the  exercise  of  all  her  bad  habits.  Every 
one  knew  it. 

Martin  went  so  far  as  to  say:  "I  think  we  had  better 
leave  her  behind." 

And  Euphemia  was  hurt  to  what,  judging  by  her  eyes, 
you  would  have  deemed  her  very  soul.  The  reproach  in 
them  made  Dickie  call  out  in  anguish: 

"Love,  love,  you  may  come!     Oh,  mayn't  she  ?" 

But  Euphemia  wasted  no  cajolery  on  her;  Euphemia 
never  wasted  her  arts.  Without  hesitation  she  crossed  over 
to  Audrey,  and  it  was  against  Audrey's  knee  that  the  silky 
head  was  pressed,  it  was  up  to  Audrey's  face  that  the 
beautiful  eyes  gazed,  and  Audrey  said,  weakly: 

"I  think  she  will  be  good  to-day,  don't  you  ?" 

"All  right!"  Martin  agreed  at  once.  "Come  along, 
Phemie." 

So  Euphemia  went  along.  Before  the  afternoon  was 
over  every  one  hated  her.  Euphemia  was  used  to  these 
evanescent  hatreds,  which  never  disturbed  her  in  the  least, 
since  they  only  lasted  just  so  long  as  she  willed.  She 
chased  fowls,  while  the  human  beings  chased  her;  she 
barked  at  sheep  and  cows,  and  was  several  times  appar- 
ently in  the  jaws  of  death;  she  took  a  bath  in  a  ditch  of 
liquid  mud;  she  sat  down  to  rest  on  the  railway  line,  with 
a  train  in  the  near  distance.  All  of  which  brought  terror 
to,  at  least,  Audrey  and  Dickie.  The  others  regarded  her 
various  performances  more  with  anger  than  fear. 

"She  shall  never  come  with  us  again!"  Jimmy  declared, 
and  Euphemia  surely  smiled. 

Outside  the  woods,  as  a  grand  finale,  she  escaped  from 
Jimmy's  hold  and  tore  into  the  middle  of  the  road  just  in 
front  of  a  motor-car  bearing  down  on  her  at  a  rate  of  forty 

94 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

miles  an  hour.  Jimmy  hurled  herself  after  her;  Audrey 
made  wild  snatches  at  various  frocks;  Martin  went  for 
Jimmy;  there  was  a  confused  babel  of  motor-hoots,  shout- 
ing, squeals,  and  barks,  and  then — a  smell  of  petrol,  and 
peace.  Audrey  said: 

"One — two — three — four — "  and  looked  very  pale. 

Euphemia  sat  beneath  the  hedge  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  road,  tongue  lolling,  the  veins  prominent  on  her  nose, 
her  eyes  half  closed. 

Martin  shook  Jimmy's  shoulder  quite  roughly. 

"Little  fool,  to  rush  out  like  that!"  he  ejaculated. 

"Martin,  I  rushed  too!"  put  in  Tommy,  in  an  injured 
voice. 

Martin  was  looking  at  Audrey.     He  said,  gently: 

"You  were  frightened.     I'm  so  sorry." 

She  smiled  valiantly. 

"'Phoebe!  Phoebe!  And  who— '"  he  muttered.  Then 
suddenly:  "Why,  I  remember!  You  are  Audrey!  Au- 
drey!" 

"Considering  that  you  hear  the  children  calling  me 
that  every  minute,  I  don't  see  what  there  is  to  be  sur- 
prised about,"  she  said. 

He  was  holding  out  his  hand,  smiling  down  at  her. 

"I  couldn't  think  why  your  face  was  so  familiar  to  me! 
Do  shake  hands  again,  won't  you  ?  You  don't  remember 
me — I'm  the  chap — " 

"I  remember  you  quite  well." 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you?"  He  looked  at  her  with  deep 
reproach.  "And  you  never  said  anything!  And  we  were 
such  friends,  too." 

She  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"Not  'such:  I  think." 

95 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"/  was,"  he  declared,  with  vagueness,  but  fervor.  "I 
remember  you  quite  well  now.  You  laughed  in  church 
because  a  wasp  buzzed  round  the  old  rector's  head." 

"It  was  a  blue-bottle." 

"Oh  yes,  so  it  was.  And  you  wore  your  hair  in  two 
long  pig-tails,  didn't  you  ?  Tied  with  blue  ribbons,"  he 
said,  tenderly. 

"They  were  never  tied  with  any  ribbon  at  all!" 

"Well,  then,  they  ought  to  have  been!" 

"Have  you  found  a  place  to  have  tea,  Jimmy  ?"  Audrey 
called  to  a  pink  frock  that  glimmered  through  the  trees. 

An  ecstatic  voice  replied: 

"A  veritous  Garden  of  Eden,  dear!" 

Another  voice  amplified  the  idea. 

"Oh,  what  fun!  Audrey  and  Martin  are  Adam  and 
Eve,  and  we're  all  their  little  Cains  and  Abels  and 
things!" 

"If  the  Professor  were  here  he  could  be  the  Devil," 
added  Jimmy. 

Professor  Forbes  was  an  elderly  neighbor.  He  was, 
above  and  beyond  and  before  that,  a  man  of  science.  He 
spent  most  of  his  time  in  his  laboratory;  but  when  not 
there  he  was  one  of  those  tiresome  people  who  are  invaria- 
bly where  they  are  not  wanted.  He  possessed,  according 
to  the  young  Barringtons  way  of  thinking,  no  code  of 
honor:  he  told  tales,  he  was  irritable,  and  he  was  mean. 
He  had  a  little  wife  who  generally  wore  a  flurried  air,  and 
always  a  sad  one,  as  if  the  years  had  proved  lean  to  her, 
the  honor  of  being  wedded  to  a  clever  man  having  failed 
to  make  them  fat.  She  was  a  slave  to  him,  and  after  all 
these  long  years  of  disillusionment,  still  admired  him. 
For  her  the  boys  had  an  affection  which  expressed  itself 

96 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

chiefly  in  various  ingenious  devices  concocted  with  a  view 
to  worry  her  learned  husband. 

That  picnic  was  a  great  success. 

Euphemia  in  disgrace,  proving  too  harrowing  to  every 
one's  feelings,  was  forgiven.  She  was  also  fed  with  sur- 
reptitious pieces  of  cake.  No  one  approved  of  this  pro- 
miscuous form  of  feeding.  They  all  agreed  that,  in  the  face 
of  her  growing  stoutness,  she  must  be  fed  only  at  stated 
intervals;  and,  with  guilty  head  averted,  with  hand  hidden 
beneath  the  cloth,  or  secreted  behind  backs,  they  fed  her 
with  pieces  of  cake. 

And  that  was  the  sort  of  dog  Euphemia  was. 

On  the  way  home  they  met  Dr.  Lawson.  Having  ex- 
tricated Euphemia  from  beneath  his  pony's  hoofs,  they 
gave  attention  to  what  he  was  saying. 

"Miss  Fielding,  I  have  just  come  from  your  house. 
Your  mother  called  me  in  as  I  was  passing,  as  Miss  Harris 
seemed  so  unwell.  She  is  suffering  from  an  attack  of 
influenza — not,  at  present,  a  severe  attack,  I  am  glad  to 
say." 

"Poor  Amelia,  she  hasn't  felt  well  for  the  last  few 
days." 

"No,  I  dare  say  not.  Your  mother  is  anxious  about 
you.  She  will  not  allow  you  to  go  into  the  sick-room. 
But  there  is  no  cause  for  anxiety.  I  hope  you  will  not  be 
nervous — " 

"Oh  no!"  she  put  in,  amused. 

"Well,  your  mother  is,  on  your  account,"  he  said,  testily. 
"She  would  doubtless  prefer  you  not  to  enter  the  house! 
Good-afternoon." 

"Audrey,"  Marcia  said,  "you  must  come  and  stay  with 
us." 

97 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Oh!"  Over  Audrey's  face  gleamed  joyous  acquies- 
cence, then  the  light  faded. 

"I  must  help  mother,"  she  said,  sadly. 

"'Phoebe!  Phoebe!'  You've  not  altered  a  bit,"  sud- 
denly declared  Martin.  "Only  then  it  was  spelling,  now 
it's  nursing  Matilda.  Are  you  always  doing  your  duty, 
Miss  Fielding  ?" 

"We'll  see  about  whether  she  is  to  do  it  now,"  Marcia 
said.  "Martin,  you  go  home  with  the  children.  I  am 
going  with  Audrey  to  see  her  mother." 

"Hadn't  we  better  all  come  ?"  he  suggested.  "I'm  very 
persuasive  I" 

"I  would  pertickly  like  to  see  a  person  with  influenza," 
Jimmy  observed,  ingratiatingly. 

"Well,  you  won't  do  it  now,  sweet.     Go  with  Martin." 

"Mummy,  I  want  to  sing  'Rule  Britannia.'" 

"Not  now,  Bobbie !" 

They  parted. 

Audrey,  looking  round,  saw  a  fat  and  disgusted  Bobbie 
pinching  Martin's  legs. 

She  walked  the  hot  road,  and  fought  piteously  with  her- 
self. As  they  turned  the  corner,  she  evolved  a  firm: 

"Please  don't  be  angry,  but — but  please  don't  come  any 
farther!" 

Marcia  smiled  gently;  she  was  not  at  all  surprised. 

"Audrey,"  she  said,  "do  you  know  what  it  is  that  so 
often  makes  unselfish  people  tiresome  ?  Well,  it's  because 
they  will  persist  in  making  martyrs  of  themselves  when 
their  martyrdom  can  do  no  good  to  any  one." 

Audrey  pondered  it  gravely. 

"But  there  will  be  only  mother  to  do  everything,  you 
see." 

98 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"And  why  not  ?  There  will  be  very  little  nursing.  She 
is  strong.  As  she  is  nervous  about  you,  you  would  merely 
be  an  additional  worry  to  her.  My  dear,  you  want  to 
come  to  us,  and  so  you  think  you  ought  not.  There  it  is 
in  a  nutshell.  It  is  merely  a  case  of  bad  sight:  you  see 
all  the  desirable  things  of  this  world  small  and  afar  off, 
while  all  the  undesirable  things  loom  large  and  close. 
I'm  going  to  see  if  I  cannot  turn  oculist  for  the  nonce,  and 
cure  you." 

Audrey  laughed  softly. 

"I'm  afraid  I  see  the  nice  things  only  too  well." 

"If  you  were  not  so  charming,  you  would  be  a 
little  prig,  my  dear.  There  is  your  mother  at  the 
gate!" 

As  they  drew  near,  Susan  retreated. 

Audrey  went  forward. 

"Mother,  she  isn't  worse  ?" 

"Don't  come  closer.  No,  she  is  no  worse.  Good-after- 
noon, Mrs.  Barrington." 

Marcia  explained  the  object  of  her  visit. 

Susan  listened  in  silence.  A  slow,  painful  flush  crept 
over  her  face;  once  she  turned  her  eyes,  with  a  curious 
flash,  almost  of  fierceness,  on  Audrey's  face;  then  she 
looked  out  straight  before  her  again.  A  queer  silence 
settled  on  the  little  group.  Audrey  moved  a  step  closer; 
her  mother  stepped  back.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  come 
near?" 

"  But,  Mother,  it  isn't  infectious.     Dr.  Lawson  says  it 

•     >.  » 
isn  t. 

Unreasoning  contempt  curled  Susan's  lip. 
"Doctors  don't  know  everything,"  she  said. 
Audrey  looked  towards  Marcia. 

99 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Then — the  children — I  have  been  with  Amelia  to- 
day—" 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  Marcia  said,  gently.  She  forebore  to 
uphold  the  doctor's  words,  seeing  that  it  would  be  useless. 

"If  I  let  you  go — "  Susan  turned  to  Marcia  and  said: 
"Will  you  promise  to  let  me  know  at  once  if  she  feels  ill  ?" 

"Yes,"  Marcia  answered. 

"I  am  all  right,  Mother,  and — couldn't  I  help  you  if  I 
stayed  here  ?  You  will  be  all  alone — 

"If  you  stayed  I  would  never  let  you  come  near  me  or 
Amelia."  Her  tone  was  inexorable. 

Audrey  was  to  have  her  heart's  desire.  Yet  so  soft  was 
that  heart  that  when  presently  she  turned  away  with 
Marcia,  all  joy  had  for  the  present  departed  from  her; 
and  all  because  her  mother,  standing  in  the  doorway, 
looked  small  and  forlorn. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"'T'HAT  child,"  observed  Marcia,  amusedly,  "is  de- 

J.    veloping." 

Under  the  beech-tree  on  the  lawn,  in  a  nest  of  cushions, 
Audrey  sat  reading.  Beside  her,  in  another  chair,  Martin 
sat,  doing  nothing. 

Martin  was  obviously  disconsolate.  He  had  spent 
the  last  half  hour  in  reminiscences,  over  which  he  was 
invariably  pulled  up  short  with  some  gentle  correc- 
tion. 

"You  were  kind  in  those  days,"  he  observed  now,  still 
reckless.  "A  kind  little  fairy  all  in  white — " 

"I  never  wore  white  frocks  because  they  get  dirty  so 
soon." 

Pause. 

"I  hated  going  off  like  that  without  saying  good-bye," 
he  essayed  then,  and  there  was  a  note  of  triumph  in  his 
voice. 

Those  soft  hazel  eyes  were  raised  from  the  book. 
"Didn't  you  say  good-bye  ?" 

Martin  was  indignant,   most  righteously  indignant. 

"Didn't  you  notice  that?  Why,  I  worried  over  it 
ridiculously!  I  was  called  away  suddenly — the  governor 
had  an  attack  of  dyspepsia  and  wanted  some  one  to  swear 
at.  I  had  to  go.  I  was  simply  obliged  to  go." 

His  tone  indicated  that  nothing  less  than  his  father's 
101 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

commands  would  have  dragged  him  away  from  the  little 
girl  who  had  laughed  in  church. 

Audrey  returned  to  her  book. 

He  rose. 

"I'm  evidently  not  wanted,"  he  declared,  and  strode 
away  across  the  lawn. 

When  the  last  bit  of  him  had  disappeared  behind  the 
rhododendrons  Audrey  put  down  her  book.  She  lay 
back  in  her  chair  and  smiled  softly;  her  cheeks  were  flushed 
a  delicate  pink,  her  eyes  were  very  bright;  the  smile  had 
something  new  about  it.  Audrey  was  enjoying  herself 
immensely.  She  was  certainly  developing,  and  in  the 
most  unexpected  way.  So  she  sat  and  dreamed. 

Jimmy  came  softly  across  the  lawn  and  flopped  down 
beside  her.  Her  face  was  exquisitely  saintlike.  She  said, 
gently: 

"Dearest,  I've  been  saying  my  prayers  in  the  garden." 

"Have  you,  dear?" 

"You  see,  it  really  is  so  very  beautiful.  I  knelt  down 
under  the  big  old  laburnum-tree,  and  said  them  there." 

Audrey's  face  had  changed;  it  was  serious  now,  and  very 
tender.  She  stroked  Jimmy's  silky  head. 

"First  I  prayed  thanks  to  God  for  giving  me  Mother." 
The  adoration  in  her  beautiful  little  face  made  Audrey's 
heart  ache. 

"I  thanked  Him  over  and  over  again,"  she  pursued,  in 
her  soft  voice,  "and  then  I  begged  Him  to  strike  the 
Professor  dead." 

"Jimmy!" 

She  looked  up  at  Audrey  innocently. 

"What,  dearest?" 

"You  are  a  very  wicked,  cruel  little  girl,  Gwendoline!" 
102 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Oh  no!"  She  looked  quite  shocked.  "I  said,  'Please 
God,  when  the  Professor  is  mixing  two  stinks,  let  them 
explode  and  strike  him  dead.'  And  I  said,  'Let  it  be  on 
the  spot,  oh  Lord,  so  that  he  is  dead  without  any  fuss. 
Amen.'" 

Audrey,  in  spite  of  being  really  shocked,  wanted  to 
laugh.  She  said,  feebly: 

"You  mustn't  say  s-stinks,  Jimmy." 

"Martin  does,"  calmly,  "and  'smells'  isn't  near  strong 
enough.  Have  you  ever  been  in  the  cottage  when  he's 
doing  camisoles  ?" 

"Doing  what?" 

Jimmy's  cheeks  grew  faintly  pink. 

"Camikals." 

"Oh!     No,  I  haven't." 

"Well,  you  go,  and  you'll  call  them  'stinks,'  too." 

Audrey  could  see  Euphemia  behind  the  walnut-tree, 
busy  on  a  bone.  She  was  trying  to  regulate  Euphemia's 
diet;  she  disapproved  of  the  way  she  was  spoiled.  But  she 
preferred  some  one  else  to  carry  her  ideas  into  practice. 

"Jimmy,  please  go  and  take  that  bone  from  Eu- 
phemia." 

"Where?  Oh!"  She  rose  unwillingly,  and  made  her 
way,  sympathy  for  the  gluttonous  and  probably  lately 
thieving  Euphemia  in  every  lagging  step.  Euphemia 
snarled  forth  a  torrent  of  low  abuse,  but  she  allowed  Jim- 
my to  take  the  bone  from  her.  Jimmy  threw  it,  with 
ostentatious  care,  into  a  laurel-bush  close  by;  Euphemia 
trotted  after  it. 

Audrey  saw  the  manoeuvre,  but  said  nothing,  having 
earnestly  decided  to  speak  seriously  to  Jimmy  on  her 
wickedness. 

103 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Jimmy,"  she  said,  gravely,  as  she  drew  near  again, 
"I  am  very  sorry  you  prayed  so  wickedly.  Do  you  know 
that  you  are  a  would-be  murderess  ?" 

"Really?  Oh,  how  lovely!  I  must  go  and  tell  Tom- 
my!" She  was  gone,  across  the  lawn,  a  white  and  gold 
vision. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AMELIA  lay  in  bed,  the  bedclothes  pulled  up  be- 
J\  neath  her  chin,  her  terra-cotta-hued  face  mournful 
to  the  degree  of  ludicrousness.  Five  little  screwed-up 
curl-papers  sat  along  the  top  of  her  brow.  At  intervals 
she  sniffed  pathetically. 

In  the  window  Susan  sat  darning  stockings. 

"  It  seems  like  yesterday  that  I  came  walking  up  to  this 
house  just  to — to  see  how  you  were  getting  on,"  Amelia 
said,  suddenly. 

The  stocking  which  Susan  was  darning  jerked  on  her 
hand.  She  glanced  swiftly  at  Amelia's  face. 

"Nearly  nineteen  years  ago,"  she  said. 

Amelia  sniffed. 

"Nineteen  years!  And  I  meant  to  stay  an  hour! 
Nineteen  years  of  this  lonely  life!  And  me  always  so 
sociable.  Life,"  said  Amelia,  "is  very  hard  on  us  poor 
women." 

Susan  darned  with  an  absence  of  her  usual  methodical 
care;  she  glanced  up  often  at  Amelia. 

"You  have  had  a  comfortable  home,"  she  said,  curtly. 

"And  why  ?"  There  was  a  sudden  ugly  snarl  in  Amelia's 
voice.  "Why  have  you  given  me  a  home?  Out  of  love 
for  me  ?  Oh  yes,  that's  it!  Out  of  love!" 

A  feverish  spot  of  color  burned  on  either  cheek;  the 
curl-papers  trembled. 

105 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

The  stocking  dropped  to  Susan's  lap;  she  stared  into 
Amelia's  excited  face. 

"What  do — do — "  she  said,  and  she  stopped,  a  queer 
look  of  fear  shadowing  her  face. 

Amelia  heaved  herself  over  onto  her  side,  and  buried 
her  face  in  the  pillow. 

Slowly  Susan  took  up  the  stocking  and  continued  to 
darn. 

Afterwards  she  unpicked  the  work  that  she  did  then. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  room  till  Amelia  asked: 

"Is  it  time  for  the  doctor  yet?" 

"He  will  be  here  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

Amelia  sat  up  hastily. 

"He  might  be  early.     Give  me  the  glass,  Susan,  quick!" 

Susan  rose  with  a  slowness  that  subtly  expressed  con- 
tempt. 

Amelia's  hands,  trembling  with  weakness  and  hurry, 
were  fumbling  at  the  curl-papers.  Susan  placed  the  mir- 
ror and  brush  and  comb  on  the  bed.  Amelia  picked  up 
the  glass  and  peered  anxiously  at  her  reflection. 

"My  eyes  are  scarcely  inflamed  at  all  now,"  she  said, 
in  a  satisfied  voice.  "  I  really  look  almost  myself  again — 
except,  perhaps,  for  a  little  delicacy." 

She  smiled  complacently.  Susan  stood,  staring  down 
sombrely  at  her.  Amelia  did  not  notice  her;  she  was  busy 
pulling  and  twisting  at  her  curls,  studying  the  effect  with 
her  head  first  to  one  side  and  then  the  other.  There  was  a 
certain  pathos  in  such  an  exhibition  of  vanity,  but  it  was 
lost  on  Susan;  even  her  contempt  had  gone;  in  her  eyes, 
staring  down  at  Amelia,  was  only  a  certain  searching  in- 
tentness  as  if  she  were  striving  desperately  to  see  into  the 
small  mind  behind  those  poor  little  curls.  Amelia  glanced 

1 06 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

up  at  last,  as  if  impelled  suddenly,  and  gave  a  cry;   she 
dropped  the  comb,  and  huddled  back  on  the  pillow. 

"Why  do  you  stare  at  me  like  that  ?  I — I  haven't  done 
anything — I  mean — don't  look  at  me  like  that!"  She 
began  to  weep,  holding  the  sheet  up  to  her  face.  "I  don't 
know  what  you  mean — staring  at  me  like  that — you  always 
were  hard  on  me — "  she  whimpered. 

Susan  stepped  back,  she  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes 
and  spoke  quickly:  "Don't  be  foolish,  Amelia!  You  are 
full  of  sick  fancies." 

"  But  you — you  were  staring  funnily  at  me,  just  as  if — 
as  if  you  suspect  me  of — of  something — I  don't  see  why  you 
should — I — 

Susan  interrupted,  her  words  jostling  each  other  rough- 
ly. "Don't  be  ridiculous!  I  was  looking  at  your  hair.  I 
was  wondering  whether  you  wouldn't  look  better  with  the 
curls  a  little  looser." 

A  queer  gleam  of  sardonic  humor  shone  in  her  eyes  for 
a  moment;  it  was  reflected  in  some  of  the  lines  round  her 
mouth.  But  her  words  had  the  desired  effect;  they  turned 
Amelia's  thoughts  into  a  new  channel.  She  pushed  away 
the  sheet,  her  hand  went  up  to  her  hair. 

"Do  you  think  so,  Susan?"  She  sat  up,  and  grasped 
the  mirror  again. 

"I've  spoilt  myself  now  with  crying,"  she  said,  tearfully. 
"I  shall  look  my  worst  for  the  doctor!" 

"It  will  wear  off  in  a  few  minutes,"  Susan  replied,  with 
an  unusual  patience. 

Amelia  glanced  up  at  her  with  a  sly  smile. 

"A  little — just  a  little — powder,"  she  said,  hesitatingly. 

"There  isn't  such  a  thing  in  the  house,"  Susan  said, 
curtly. 

s  107 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Amelia  opened  her  mouth,  then  shut  it  again.  A  vision 
of  a  little  paper  bag  with  powder  in  it,  hidden  away  in  a 
box  in  her  room,  dangled  alluringly  before  her  eyes;  but 
her  fear  of  Susan  forbade  mention  of  the  secret  hoard. 

She  lay  back  with  a  fretful  sigh. 

Susan  took  away  the  mirror,  brush  and  comb,  curl- 
papers. 

"There's   Dr.   Lawson,"  she  said,  and   left  the  room. 

"Well,  how  is  she  getting  on  ?"  the  doctor  asked,  as  she 
opened  the  door  to  him. 

"Very  well,  I  think." 

He  nodded. 

"There's  a  sharpness  in  the  air  this  morning.  Now  let 
me  think — ah,  yes — it  has  struck  me,  Mrs.  Fielding,  to 
wonder  whether  our  patient  has  anything  on  her  mind  ?" 

"No!  She  couldn't  have!"  Susan's  denial  came  quick- 
ly, almost  before  he  had  finished  speaking. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  certain  disapproval. 

"We  are  none  in  a  position  to  make  such  emphatic  state- 
ments about  our  fellow-mortals,  Mrs.  Fielding.  The  hu- 
man mind  is  essentially — 

"How  could  she?"  Susan  broke  in,  unconscious  of  in- 
terruption. "She  has  lived  here  for  nearly  nineteen  years. 
She  is  foolish — weak.  She  would  never  be  able  to  keep 
anything  to  herself  all  that  while."  She  spoke  insistently, 
almost  as  if  she  were  trying  to  convince,  to  bring  reas- 
surance to,  herself,  as  well  as  to  the  doctor. 

He  waved  his  eye-glasses. 

"But  it  isn't  necessary  that  she  should  have  had  this 
trouble  on  her  mind  for  such  a  length  of  time,"  he  sug- 
gested, blandly. 

Susan's  eyelids  blinked. 

108 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Of  course  not!"  she  said,  sharply. 

"Some  little  trouhle;  some — ah — feminine  worry,"  he 
pursued.  "I  have  seen  it  so  often.  The  feminine  mind, 
and  more  especially  the  sick  feminine  mind,  is  so  apt  to 
seize  upon  and  nurse  a  trouble  that  in  all  probability  has 
no  substance,  no  practical  reality."  He  had  reached  the 
sick-room;  he  entered  with  a  professional  smile,  as  cheerful 
as  if  he  had  come  to  dine. 

"And  how  is  our  patient  this  morning?" 

Presently  Susan  was  obliged  to  leave  the  room  in  answer 
to  a  knock  at  the  hall  door;  she  went  reluctantly. 

Dr.  Lawson  turned  at  once  to  Amelia;  he  had  a  tre- 
mendous faith  in  himself,  which  was  what  had  brought 
him  to  his  present  comfortable  position,  it  being  an  en- 
viable faculty  to  possess,  and  one  that  makes  for  success 
more  surely  than  brains  or  plodding.  He  had  decided 
that  Amelia  had  something  on  her  mind;  it  followed  as 
a  natural  sequence  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  she 
had. 

"Something  is  troubling  you,"  he  said,  kindly. 

Amelia's  loose  mouth  worked. 

"What  should  be?  There's  nothing,  doctor!  No, 
there  isn't." 

He  patted  her  hand  gently,  and  Amelia  wept.  She 
sobbed  out  incoherent  sentences  about  a  woman's  heart, 
and  always  being  timid,  and  Susan  so  hard,  and,  after  all, 
what  harm  had  she  done  ?  If  all  you  heard  was  true  she 
had  done  good,  not  harm.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  doctor,  you  are  a  gentleman!  I  trust  you!"  ex- 
claimed poor  Amelia  dramatically,  if  thickly,  as  Susan 
approached  the  room. 

As  Dr.  Lawson  drove  away,  he  looked  back  at  the  sad 
109 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

little  gray  house  standing  grimly  alone  at  the  top  of  the 
hill.  "I  really  may  say  that  I  never  make  a  mistake,"  he 
said. 

From  a  window  on  the  top  floor  a  woman's  strained  eyes 
watched  him  drive  away;  her  thin  little  hands  made  a  wild 
gesture  as  if  they  would  drag  him  back:  a  dry  sob  rattled  in 
her  throat 

"I  was — away — three  minutes,"  Susan  muttered  to  her- 
self. She  turned  and  stared  wildly  at  Amelia,  who  lay 
with  mouth  open,  asleep. 

"She  could  not  be  sure"  she  said.  She  had  said  it  many 
times  during  nineteen  long  years. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  T  AM  so  happy!" 

1  Marcia  smiled  down  at  her. 

"I  don't  think  any  one  can  be  so  happy  as  I  am," 
Audrey  went  on,  softly. 

Beyond  the  long  French  windows  the  day  was  gray  and 
cold;  a  sad,  little,  rain-swept  world  lay  there;  the  rhodo- 
dendrons' delicate  blossoms  were  crinkled  and  limp;  the 
lilac-bushes  bent  beneath  the  heavy  slanting  rain.  In  the 
room — it  was  a  long,  narrow  room — all  wonderful  yellows 
and  white — a  fire  glowed  in  the  grate,  which  Euphemia  was 
convinced  was  there  entirely  for  her  benefit.  She  lay 
stretched  at  full  length  on  the  white  fur  rug,  her  head  in 
dangerous  proximity  to  the  flames;  at  intervals  she  groaned 
because  she  was  too  hot,  whereupon  Audrey  would  put 
a  shielding  foot  or  hand  between  her  head  and  the 
fire. 

"When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  used  to  try  to  walk  and  speak 
like  you.  Now  I  know  no  one  in  the  whole  world  can  ever 
do  it  till  Jimmy  grows  up." 

Marcia  laughed  softly. 

"You  are  the  most  wicked  little  flatterer,  Audrey!" 

Audrey  nestled  closer  on  the  rug,  resting  her  head 
against  Marcia's  knee. 

"Stroke  my  hair,"  she  said,  coaxingly. 

Presently : 

in 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Wouldn't  it  have  been  terrible  if  you  had  had  no 
children  ?  I  mean  for  them." 

"Isn't  that  rather  Irish,  sweet  ?" 

"I  think  the  Irish  can  often  express  things  better  than 
we  can.  Mrs.  Barrington  ?" 

"Well,  dear?" 

Audrey  was  silent.  Her  natural  reserve,  strengthened 
by  her  up-bringing,  often  prevented  her  from  saying  what 
she  wished  to  say,  even  to  Marcia. 

But  Marcia  waited;  she  knew  how  to  wait. 

Audrey,  her  hands  clasped  about  her  knees,  gazed  into 
the  fire;  the  light  caught  the  waves  and  ends  of  her  hair 
till  they  glowed  gold  and  red. 

"I — I  sometimes  wonder — whether — whether  mother 
would  have  been — happier — without  me." 

The  small,  hesitating  voice  ceased;  Marcia  read  tragedy 
in  it;  she  understood  how  these  days  spent  at  the  Hall 
had  fed  the  doubt. 

She  sat  forward. 

"You  should  not  wonder  that,  Audrey,"  she  said,  gently. 
"It  is  morbid.  Don't  you  know  that  your  mother's  love 
for  you  is  a  veritable  passion  ?" 

Audrey  lifted  a  white  face;  tears  filled  her  eyes  sud- 
denly; she  did  not  speak. 

"Dear,  there  are  all  sorts  of  mothers  in  the  world," 
Marcia  went  on.  "Just  because  I  happen  to  be  the  sort 
who  pets  her  children,  you  must  not  think  that  that  is  the 
only  way  of  showing  love.  Audrey,  your  mother  comes 
of  a  stern,  a  self-restrained,  reserved  family.  Her  very 
love  for  you  makes  her  sterner — she  is  so  afraid  of  spoiling 
you."  She  rose  suddenly,  and  began  walking  up  and 
down  the  room.  "Audrey,  when  Jimmy  was  born — when 

112 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

I  held  her  and  looked  down  at  her  little  round  head,  her 
helpless  body,  her  serious  eyes — an  instinct  sprang  to  life 
in  me — oh,  so  strong!  The  instinct  to  spoil  her — to  spare 
her — to  do  everything  for  her  always."  She  paused  by  a 
large  palm,  and  broke  off  a  dead  leaf.  "I  fought  it,"  she 
said.  "Oh,  how  I  fought  as  the  years  slipped  by!  It  is 
so  horribly  strong — that  instinct!  It  is  fostered,  strength- 
ened by  the  first  weeks  and  months  of  the  little  helpless  life 
when  you  must  do  everything.  You  see  the  result  of  it  all 
round  you — spoiled,  selfish  children,  bored  at  ten  years  old! 
Oh,  the  pity  of  it!  ...  I  was  spoiled  like  that!" 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  Audrey  cried  out. 

Marcia  smiled  at  her  gently. 

"You  didn't  know  me  before  I  met  Dick,"  she  said, 
simply. 

There  was  a  little  silence.  Then  she  went  on  speaking, 
a  beautiful  light  in  her  face. 

"How  could  I  dare  reckon  on  my  children  finding  a  love 
like  his  ?  On  their  loving  so  that  they  should  know  what 
it  was  to  rejoice — to  rejoice  in  giving  up  their  will  to  an- 
other ?  How  could  I  trust  to  that  ?  I  had  to  look  for- 
ward, to  prepare  them  to  live  without  that,  or  to  make 
them  more  worthy  of  it  should  it  come,  than  I  had  been. 
I  had  to  make  them  strong  and  brave  and  happy — to  teach 
them  to  think  sanely — to  be  unselfish,  self-reliant.  I  want 
them  to  have  beauty  and  love — to  fill  their  childhood  with 
that — to  give  them  something  that,  no  matter  what  their 
after  life  may  be,  shall  always  be  precious  to  them. 
Women's  lives  are  so  hard — sometimes.  And  sick  minds 
make  them  so  much  harder  than  they  need  be.  I  think 
my  children  have  healthy  minds.  I  pray  God  that  they 
may  always  have  them." 

"3 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

She  came  back  and  sat  down  again  by  Audrey. 

"Your  mother  had  to  fight  like  that,  too,  Audrey,  and 
I  think  her  very  fear  carried  her  too  far  in  the  other  direc- 
tion; it  blinded  her  to  the  fact  that  every  child  has  a 
nature,  a  disposition  of  her  own.  I  wanted  to  bring  up 
my  children  without  their  knowing  what  fear  was.  My 
methods  answered  with  Jimmy  and  Tommy.  They  go 
to  bed  always  without  a  light;  they,"  with  a  whimsical 
smile,  "make  my  life  a  thing  of  terror  to  me,  because  they 
do  not  know  what  fear  is.  Bobbie  is  the  same.  But  my 
little  Dickie  is  different.  I  have  tried  her  without  a  light 
in  her  room,  and  she  said  nothing,  but  she  suffered,  and 
now  she  has  a  light.  You  were  like  that,  and  your  mother 
is  so  different — I  expect  she  thought  it  a  weakness  to  be 
overcome.  But  timidity  in  some  children  is  constitutional, 
and  can  only  be  coaxed  out  of  them  gradually,  never 
driven." 

Audrey  sat  thinking.  Marcia  was  used  to  the  queer, 
grave  way  she  had  of  thinking  out  a  subject;  she  forebore 
to  interrupt  her. 

She  spoke  at  last;  the  wide  generosity  that  sweetened 
her  nature  shone  in  the  eyes  she  lifted  to  Marcia's  face. 

"You  have  made  me  understand,"  she  said.  "My 
mother  does  love  me,  and  oh,  I  love  her!" 

No  memory  of  the  agonies  suffered  in  childhood,  of  the 
deprivations,  the  dulness  of  her  life,  marred  the  perfection 
of  that  minute.  But  Marcia,  remembering,  bent  and  kiss- 
ed her,  unable  to  speak. 

"Audrey,  I  shall  give  a  ball,  and  you  shall  be  the  queen 
of  it!  You  shall  come  out  at  it." 

Tea  had  just  been  brought  in,  and  with  it  Dick  had 
114 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

appeared.  He  gave  one  of  his  big  laughs  at  the  ecstatic 
face  Audrey  turned  to  Marcia. 

"A  ball!     A.  ball!" 

Martin,  strolling  in,  looked  at  her  earnestly;  he  did  not 
join  in  Dick's  laughter. 

"Will  you  dance  the  first  with  me  ?"  he  said.  "And  the 
supper  dance,  and  three — four  others  ?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  descend  to  the  thought  of  mere  mundane 
human  partners  yet,"  she  returned,  laughing.  "What 
shall  I  wear  ?"  She  turned  earnestly  to  Marcia. 

"White  crepe  de  chine  with  pompons  a  la  Empire,  made 
with  the  new  bolero  and  appliques,"  said  Martin,  seri- 
ously. 

The  door  was  softly  opened.    Jimmy  said  from  the  hall: 

"I  know  I  mustn't  come  in  unless  I'm  invited,  but  it's 
really  most  important!" 

A  chorus  of  invitation  issued  from  the  room.  Jimmy 
appeared,  walking  softly — a  chastened  Jimmy.  She  made 
her  way  to  her  mother. 

"Why,  dear,  you  see — Martin,  shut  the  door,  please, 
else  Tommy  will  come  in — Mother,  sweet,  do  you  think  the 
soldier  who  accepted  the  cup  of  cold  water  from  Sir  Philip 
Sydney  was  an  awful  pig?" 

Martin,  shutting  the  door,  smiled. 

"I've  had  my  doubts  of  him,  Jim!" 

Jimmy's  velvet-clad  bosom  heaved  in  a  big  sigh;  she 
hung  her  head  in  thought,  till  her  hair  fell  round  her  in  a 
pale  cloud  of  gold.  Over  her  unconscious  head  Dick 
made  grimaces  to  attract  Marcia's  attention  to  Jimmy's 
attitude. 

Marcia's  eyes  twinkled. 

"The  absurdity  of  him!"  she  said  to  the  fire. 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Through  the  key-hole  came  an  indignant  whisper. 

"7  heard  what  Martin  said!  I  won't  be  him.  You've 
always  said  he  was  a  most  tremenjous  pig!" 

Jimmy  turned  to  Dick. 

"Dad,  you're  a  married  man,  what  do  you  think  ?" 

"Let  me  hear  the  case,  my  dear,"  said  Dick,  judicially. 

"You  see,  it's  like  this.  I  do  so  want  to  be  Sir  Philip 
Sydney  all  dying  and  wounded  on  the  battle-field,  but 
Tommy  won't  be  the — the — 

"Pig!"  from  the  hall. 

"And  Dickie,"  in  a  tone  of  intense  wonder,  "is  down- 
stairs nursing  cook's  sister's  baby!  Mother,  isn't  she 
really  queer?" 

"How  queer,  old  girl  ?"  said  Dick,  with  lazy  enjoyment. 

"A  baby,  dad!  Not  a  puppy,  or  a  foal,  or  even  a  kitten! 
Babies  are  so  awfully  silly.  They  can't  even  lick  you,  and 
they've  no  tails  to  wag,  so  that  you  can  tell  when  they're 
pleased,  and  they  are  so  perfectly  hideous,  and  so  very 
stupid,  aren't  they  ?  They  couldn't  possibly  run  after  a 
bit  of  string,  or  steal  coal  out  of  the  coal-box,  or  eat  your 
shoes,  or  do  anything.  Mother,  was  /  ever  quile  so 
silly?" 

"Quite,  dearest." 

"  Jim,"  said  Martin,  "you're  a  horrid  little  New  Woman! 
When  you  grow  up  you'll  be  clamoring  and  kicking  for  a 
vote!" 

Jimmy  looked  thoughtful. 

"I  don't  think  I  will,  Martin.  You  see,  if  I  went  in  for 
politics  I  should  have  to  stay  in  town  a  good  deal,  and  I 
mean  to  live  in  the  country  always;  besides,  I  should  hate 
to  worry  a  bobby — I  do  so  adore  them.  But  my  sympathism 
is  with  the  women,"  very  gravely.  "I  do  think  mother 

116 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

ought  to  have  a  vote  before  old  Silas  Green,  who  is  always 
drunk  'cept  on  funeral  mornings." 

"Hear!  Hear!"  said  Dick.  "Jim,  come  and  give  me 
a  kiss!" 

Jimmy,  with  her  arms  round  his  neck,  cooed: 

"Dear  old  dad!  I  wish  there  were  more  like  you!  The 
world  would  be  a  better  place." 

"Oh,  she's  delicious!"  Audrey  told  Euphemia. 

Martin  sat  down  on  the  rug. 

"I  want  to  cuddle  Euphemia,  too,"  he  said. 

"I've  thought  of  a  way,"  said  Jimmy,  and  slipped  to  the 
floor. 

It  was  Dick  who  presently  suggested  a  visit  to  the 
nursery  to  see  how  the  difficulty  had  been  overcome. 
They  found  the  door  ajar.  Approaching  noiselessly,  they 
looked  in.  On  the  floor  lay  Jimmy;  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room  Tommy  sat,  with  ostentatious  back  turned  to 
the  room;  beside  Jimmy — they  stared  in  horror — lay  the 
stout  and  dignified  Williamson!  Williamson,  the  monu- 
ment of  respectability  and  decorum!  Williamson,  the  old 
family  butler,  who  had  never  been  known  to  relax  into  a 
smile — to  express  by  so  much  as  one  wince  his  realization  of 
pins  being  dug  into  his  beautiful  calves;  of  jokes  made  at 
his  expense;  of  placards  bearing  rude  inscriptions  and 
adorning  his  coat-tails!  Williamson,  who,  beneath  all 
these  trials,  and  beneath,  too,  the  fire  of  several  pairs  of 
wickedly  expressive  childish  eyes,  had  poured  out  wine, 
had  taken  round  plates,  with  never  a  blink  of  his  immac- 
ulate eyelashes. 

Audrey  gasped.  Dick  was  dumfounded.  Martin  whis- 
tled beneath  his  breath;  and  it  was  only  Marcia  who, 
smiling  amusedly,  whispered: 

117 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"I  have  had  my  suspicions  of  him!" 

Jimmy  waved  a  cup  of  water  above  her  head. 

"Take  this  water  to  him,  his  necessity  is  greater  than 
mine!"  quoth  she,  to  an  imaginary  attendant;  then,  in  an 
intense  whisper:  "Take  it,  Billy!" 

She  continued  to  wave  the  cup  above  his  head,  spilling 
a  good  deal  of  it.  Williamson  put  up  a  hand  and  seized 
it.  Then  Jimmy  proceeded  to  act  a  revised  version  of  the 
old  story,  and  one  concocted  on  the  spur  of  the  moment 
by  herself.  Stretching  out  a  long,  slim  leg,  she  gave  Will- 
iamson an  energetic  kick  upon  his  thigh;  he  bore  it  with- 
out a  sign  of  movement. 

"Pig!  Wouldst  thou  drink  the  draught  of  a  soldier's 
thirst  ?  May  the  carrion-crows  pick  out  thine  eyes!  May 
your  little  children  be  widows  and  fatherless,  oh,  faithless 
and  selfish  pig!" 

Audrey  turned  and  ran  down  the  corridor. 

"It — it  was  the  thought — of — Williamson!"  she  gasped. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

OHE  tilted  back  her  head  and  looked  up  at  him  seri- 
O  ously. 

"I  feel  so  good,"  she  said. 

He  smiled. 

"I  want  to  be  gooder,"  she  added. 

"You  couldn't  be,"  he  promptly  responded. 

She  tried  to  frown  at  the  bunch  of  lilies-of-the-valley 
which  she  held,  but  she  could  not  manage  it. 

"You  are  trite,"  she  observed. 

"There's  often  a  lot  of  truth  in  truisms,"  he  said;  "and," 
he  added,  "they're  safe." 

"Safe?" 

It  was  then  that  he  failed  to  explain  himself  further;  he 
often  failed  like  that  with  Audrey. 

She  had  a  way  of  looking  at  him  with  wide-eyed  inno- 
cence, a  way  of  waiting  gravely  for  his  response  that  dis- 
concerted him  a  little. 

"I  wonder  would  the  world  be  a  very  wicked  place  if 
there  were  no  spring  ?"  she  said. 

"It  does  wash  away  the  dirt  a  bit,"  he  agreed,  "but 
winter  does  it  too,  you  know." 

"Winter  is  very  beautiful  and  grand,  but  don't  you 
think  it  needs  a  stronger  soul  to  stand  its  more  drastic 
methods  ?" 

He  met  her  serious  eyes  and  flushed  boyishly. 
119 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"I'm  afraid  I  was  thinking  chiefly  of  the  hunting,"  he 
said. 

"Yes?" 

"Why,  you  see,  it's  simply  grand!  It  seems  to  me 
there's  nothing  will  knock  all  the  rubbish  out  of  a  chap 
like  a  good  run,  with  a  good  mount  under  him.  It's  you 
and  your  horse  together — he's  as  keen  as  you  are — every- 
one's keen — it  gets  into  your  blood.  Look  at  the  hounds 
— it's  a  treat  to  see  them.  And  you  take  all  weathers  and 
chances — you  and  your  horse.  Come  home  drenched,  or 
come  home  dry,  it's  all  one  so  long  as  you've  had  a  good 
day.  You  feel  pretty  content  with  the  world,  you  know, 
and  all  the  cobwebs  are  bound  to  have  been  sent  flying. 
That's  what  I  was  thinking  of." 

"I  can't  ride,"  she  said,  wistfully. 

He  paused  on  the  path. 

"I  say,  will  you  let  me  teach  you  ?" 

"Oh!"  Her  face  kindled,  then  her  shyness  shadowed 
it.  "No,  thank  you,"  she  said. 

"Do,"  he  urged.  "I'm  sure  you'd  make  a  good  rider. 
I  always  flatter  myself  I  can  tell." 

"Do  you  think  I  would  really  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

He  nodded. 

"Sure  of  it.  I'm  never  wrong.  You  could  start  on 
Robin;  he's  a  quiet  old  soul." 

Longing  fought  nervousness  and  a  sensitive  horror  of 
publicity. 

"I  haven't  a  skirt." 

"Oh,  Marcia  will  rig  you  up  something." 

Martin  bent  his  head  and  coaxed. 

"I  do  want  to  teach  you.  If  I  could  only  make  you 
understand  what  you  miss  by  not  being  able  to  ride.  It 

1 20 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

beats  eveiything  in  the  world.  It's  worth  the  bumping 
it  gives  you  at  first." 

She  gathered  confidence  from  his  gay  face. 

"I — I  know  I  shall  be  awfully  silly,  and  a  most  horrible 
coward,"  she  hesitated. 

"Just  at  first  you  may  feel  scared,"  he  said,  in  his  kind 
voice.  "But  not  after  a  bit.  Will  you  come  now?" 

"Suppose  when  I'm  on  I — scream  ?" 

He  smiled  down  at  her. 

"Well,  what  if  you  do?" 

"But  suppose  I'm  so  frightened  that  I  only  want  to  get 
off?" 

"In  that  case  it  will  be  no  good  trying  to  make  you 
into  a  horsewoman,  that's  all.  No  harm  will  have  been 
done." 

"Yes,  there  will,"  she  said,  a  humorous  twist  to  her 
mouth. 

"What  harm?" 

"To  my  self-respect.  And  to  your  respect  for  me,  and 
Mrs.  Barrington's  and  'the  boys.'" 

It  was  queer  to  see  how  at  a  loss  he  was;  he  made  ex- 
cuses for  her. 

"We  can't  all  be  alike,"  he  said,  lamely.  "It  isn't  likely 
that  just  because  any  one  happened  to  be  nervous  that 
way — " 

She  interrupted,  laughing. 

"Don't  try  to  be  kind.  It's  true  that  you'd  none  be 
able  to  understand  it,  and  deep  down  there  would  be  a 
tiny  bit  of  'despicion.'  I  like  that  word.  I  coined  it," 
she  added. 

He  took  refuge  in: 

"You  won't  be  nervous.     I'm  sure  of  it." 

121 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

But  Audrey's  heart  was  quaking  when,  a  little  later,  he 
led  Robin  up  to  her.  Never,  never  had  horse  surely  been 
so  tall!  She  stood  close,  obeying  him,  then  looked  up  and 
up  and  up. 

"He's  a  jolly  little  chap,"  Martin  said,  reassuringly. 

Little! 

She  strove  to  gain  time  by  patting  Robin's  fat  gray  side, 
but  Marcia,  being  wise,  put  in  a  quiet — 

"She's  ready,  Martin." 

Martin  gave  her  his  directions.  Audrey  followed  them 
obediently. 

"Now,  when  I  say  'three' — spring,"  he  said.  "One — 
two — three!" 

She  sprang,  and  no  one  was  more  astonished  than  she 
was  to  find  herself  in  the  saddle. 

"That's  good,"  he  said,  encouragingly. 

She  smiled  down  at  him — what  a  long  way  down  it  was! 

He  was  showing  her  how  to  hold  the  reins.  "  Ridiculous 
little  hands!"  he  said.  "Now  you  shall  walk  round  the 
field." 

And  in  the  next  few  minutes  joy  and  a  glad  pride  filled 
Audrey's  heart.  Frightened?  Not  she!  Why,  it  was 
lovely,  and  so  easy. 

Marcia,  following  slowly,  smiled,  but  kept  silence.  Or- 
dinarily so  modest,  a  wonderful  certainty  came  to  Audrey 
that  she  was  one  of  those  rare  people,  of  whom  she  had 
heard,  who  are  born  riders;  one  of  those  people  who  re- 
quire no  teaching,  who,  at  the  first  essay,  ride  as  well  as 
if  they  have  always  ridden.  She  was  ridiculously  happy. 
"Dear  old  Robin,"  she  murmured. 

"Will  you  try  trotting  now  ?"  Martin  asked. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  joyously,  and  then — and  then — 

122 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Two  minutes  later  Robin  stood  still.  Audrey,  through 
a  haze  of  hair  that  curled  and  waved  round  her  face,  looked 
down  abashed  at  Martin.  She  was  very  hot,  very  breath- 
less, and  very  much  ashamed.  But  she  was  not  in  the 
least  nervous. 

"That's  a  splendid  start,"  he  said,  heartily. 

"Please — don't  be — so — ridiculous!"  she  panted,  an- 
grily. 

"I'm  serious,"  he  told  her,  earnestly.  "At  least,  you 
didn't  come  off.  You  were  awfully  game." 

"Didn't  it  feel  terrible?"  Marcia  had  drawn  near. 
"It's  all  bumping  and  jarring  at  present,  but  you  wait." 

Audrey  was  trying  to  coil  up  her  hair  with  hot,  fumbling 
hands. 

"You  shouldn't  drop  the  reins  like  that/'  Martin  chid 
her.  "It  doesn't  matter  with  old  Robin,  but  it's  not  right." 

He  was  very  serious,  very  much  in  earnest  over  her 
lesson. 

"  Plait  your  hair,  and  let  it  hang,  dear,"  Marcia  advised. 

Martin  watched  impatiently. 

"Now,  are  you  ready  to  start  again  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  And  off  she  went,  with  him  running 
beside  her,  advising,  explaining,  keeping  time. 

Never  in  all  her  life  had  she  felt  so  hot;  never  so  mis- 
erably aware  of  her  utter  stupidity.  But  she  would  not 
give  in. 

Marcia  was  interested. 

"I  knew  she  had  grit  and  an  indomitable  will  under 
that  soft  little  exterior.  But,  oh,  won't  she  be  stiff  and  ach- 
ing to-morrow,  poor  child!" 

But  when  at  last  Audrey  dismounted  she  was  smiling 
joyously.  Aches  and  pains  she  could  bear  now  with  a 

9  123 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

valiant  spirit,  for  she  had  done  it!  For  one  blessed  minute 
something  miraculous  had  happened.  That  was  all  that 
she  had  known.  The  bumpings  and  screwings  had  ceased; 
a  beautiful  rhythmic  sensation,  and  Martin's  triumphant 
voice : 

"You've  got  it!     That's  it!" 

And  then  bumpings  and  screwings  again,  but  beyond 
them  a  memory. 

"I  did  it!"  so  she  told  Marcia. 

She  stood  stroking  Robin's  nose;  there  seemed  a  new 
relation  between  them.  Her  pink  face  was  radiant.  "Dear, 
dear  old  Robin!  How  I've  worried  you  and  bumped  you 
about!  But  I'll  ride  you  some  day,  Robin!  Oh,  I  love 
it!" 

Martin  stood  by,  looking  down  at  her  with  a  paternal  air 
of  pride.  Audrey  turned  her  head: 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  she  said.  "When  will  you  let  me 
try  again  ?" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AJDREY  laughed  as  she  battled  with  the  storm. 
Winter  had  descended  with  roarings  of  sleet-laden 
winds  upon  the  world  of  delicate  flowers  and  fragrances. 
It  was  the  end  of  May  according  to  the  calendar;  but  the 
bitter  east  wind  was  colder,  as  it  swept  on  its  way  with  a 
ruthless  grand  ferocity,  than  it  had  been  in  December. 

Red-cheeked,  Audrey  pushed  on,  fighting,  with  a  new- 
born joy,  the  wind  and  the  sleet.  She  seemed  alone  in  the 
world  when  she  had  breasted  the  hill  and  stood  looking 
about  her.  Once  she  had  shrunk  from  that  feeling  of 
loneliness;  the  largeness  of  the  world  had  frightened  her 
when  her  own  smallness,  her  insignificance,  had  been 
brought  home  too  sharply  to  her.  She  had  shrunk  too 
from  mighty  storms.  Nature  in  her  big  moods  had  alarm- 
ed her.  But  now  a  change  had  come  over  her.  She 
gloried  in  the  savage  wind;  the  huge  scurrying  black 
clouds;  she  lifted  her  face  to  the  spiteful  sleet.  Just  as  she 
had  loved  and  revelled  in  the  beautiful  spring  sweetness 
with  a  keener  joy  than  ever  before,  so  now  she  loved  the 
storm,  and  was  not  afraid.  At  the  top  of  the  hill  she  could 
not  keep  her  footing;  she  slipped  her  arm  around  the  trunk 
of  a  shivering  beech-tree,  and  so  stood,  panting.  With 
her  red  cheeks,  brilliant  eyes,  and  smiling  lips  she  looked 
a  sprite  of  the  storm;  her  joy  made  her  a  part  of  it;  the  very 
tendrils  of  her  hair  seemed  to  glow  with  that  joy.  It  was 

125 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

a  new  Audrey  that  Martin,  pursuing  at  a  discreet  distance, 
came  upon  at  the  top  of  the  hill. 

She  did  not  speak  when  he  joined  her;  she  gave  him  a 
smile  and  cuddled  her  arm  tighter  round  the  tree. 

Presently  he  spoke. 

"It  will  be  dark  before  you  can  get  back,"  he  said,  in  a 
disapproving  tone. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  grand!"  With  inconsequent  joy  she  waved 
aside  his  disapproval. 

He  frowned. 

"I  think  a  frown  rather  suits  you,"  she  said,  her  head 
on  one  side. 

He  would  not  smile. 

"You  might  walk  into  the  pond  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
in  the  dark,"  he  said. 

"  But  you  think  that  we  shall  be  safe,  now  that  you  are 
here  ?" 

"Yes." 

"That,"  she  said,  with  a  provokingly  considering  air, 
"is  very  interesting.  You  see,  I  have  lived  all  my  life 
within  a  few  miles  of  this  part,  and  you — well,  say  a  few 
months  altogether,  yet  /  am  to  fall  into  that  pond  unless 
you  are  here  to  save  me.  Now,  why  shouldn't  you  fall  into 
the  pond  ?" 

"I  may.  In  that  case  I  shall  save  you  from  the  water, 
acting  as  the  awful  example  .  .  ." 

"But  I  might  fall  in  first." 

"Pardon,  you  couldn't.     I  shall  lead." 

"Oh,  are  we  to  walk  home  in  single  file?  How  dull! 
I  can't  talk  to  a  person's  back." 

He  smiled. 

"I  should  have  said  my  feet  will  lead.  You  see,  when 
126 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

we  are  shoulder  to  shoulder  my  feet  must  stick  out  a  long 
way  farther  than  yours,  and  when  I  feel  the  icy  water 
nipping  my  big  toe  I'll  holler." 

"Poor  old  tree,"  she  murmured,  as  she  felt  it  shiver 
beneath  the  onslaught  of  the  wind. 

"Do  you  remember  the  day  I  helped  you  with  your 
French  lesson  ?"  he  said. 

"French?"  she  answered.  "Oh,  I'm  frozen.  We'll 
go  back." 

Martin's  expressive  mouth  showed  amusement  and  a 
certain  determination  as  he  strode  down  the  hill  beside 
her. 

She  gave  a  gay  little  laugh. 

"I'm  being  blown  down,"  she  called  out,  breathlessly. 

The  wind  had  grown  stronger;  it  shrieked  as  it  tore  past 
them. 

"Won't  you  hold  my  arm  ?"  he  shouted. 

She  shook  her  head. 

Half-way  down  the  hill  there  was  a  little  copse.  The  trees 
were  swaying  and  bending,  but  they  were  thick  and  snug, 
and  Audrey,  out  of  breath,  ran  in  among  them  for  shel- 
ter. She  found  a  deep,  dry  ditch;  its  high  bank  kept  the 
wind  off,  and,  laughing,  she  took  refuge  there.  The  sud- 
den warm  stillness  was  startling  after  the  clamor  without. 
She  gave  a  little  snuggle  into  the  bank. 

"I  want  to  purr,"  she  said. 

"We'll  stay  here  till  we  thaw,"  he  said.  "Wait  a  bit;  if 
I  come  that  side  I  shall  keep  the  wind  off  you.  Is  that 
better?" 

"For  me  it  is." 

"Then  it  is  for  me.     Miss  Fielding?" 

"Yes?" 

127 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Don't  you  remember  that  morning  when  I  helped  you 
with  your  French  ?" 

"Oh,  I  remember  something  about  some  French.  How 
it  used  to  worry  me!  I  wonder  if  French  people  would 
understand  my  French  now  ?  I  would  love  to  go  to  Paris. 
Talk  to  me  about  it." 

"About  our  French  lesson?  Well,  you  couldn't  get  a 
sentence  right,  I  remember — " 

"I  mean  talk  about  Paris." 

"Oh,  do  you  ?  I'm  sorry.  What  shall  I  say  about  it  ? 
It's  gay  and  charming  and  beautiful,  but  give  me  dear  old 
smoky  London.  I  like  to  run  over  to  Paris  for  a  little 
while,  now  and  then — oh,  well,  that  isn't  particularly  in- 
teresting, is  it  ?  I'm  afraid  I'm  no  good  as  a  guide  to  the 
beautiful  city  of  Paris.  Of  course  they'd  understand  your 
French.  D'you  remember  'J'aime  mon  frere' ?  You 
couldn't  remember  it,  and  you  shed  some  tears  over 
it.  I  tried  to  console  you,  and  you  threw  your  arms 
round  my  neck  and  declared  that  you  loved  me  more 
than  all  the  brothers  in  the  world.  Do  you  remem- 
ber?" 

"Yes,  and  you  said  I  had  ruined  your  collar!" 

"What  a  young  cub  I  was!  How  you  used  to  hug  in 
those  days!  Didn't  you  adore  me  ?" 

His  eyes  were  twinkling. 

"I  believe  I  was  very  fond  of  you,"  she  said,  staidly. 
"Shall  we  go  on  now?" 

He  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"  Five  minutes  more.     You're  not  cold,  are  you  ?" 

"Oh  no!  My  cheeks  are  burning.  It's  coming  into 
this  warmth  out  of  the  wind." 

"When  you'd  done  hugging  me,  you  said,  'Oh,  Mr. 
128 


Jocelyn,  I  do  think  you  are  very  handsome!'"  he  pursued, 
gravely. 

"I  never  knew  your  name,"  she  said,  coldly. 

"Didn't  you?  By  Jove,  how  remiss  I  was!  And  you 
said  "  (he  went  on,  growing  reckless  by  reason  of  his  suc- 
cess): "'When  we  grow  up  we'll  be  awful  great  friends.' 
Do  you  remember  ?" 

"No,"  she  said.     "Neither  do  you." 

"  Have  I  only  dreamed  it  ?  Was  the  wish  father  to  the 
thought  ?" 

"You  made  it  up,"  she  said,  in  a  little  disapproving  way. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said;  "don't  be  cross." 

Her  expression  altered;  the  Audrey  of  old  days  disap- 
peared; she  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"  It's  hardly  worth  being  cross  about,  is  it  ?  What  a 
wonderfully  good  memory  you  must  have,  to  remember 
such  silly  little  trivial  things." 

"You  remember  them,  too,"  he  suggested. 

"  Do  I  ?  But  you  prompt  me,  you  see.  And  the  things 
that  happen  in  one's  childhood  always  stand  out  so  clearly, 
don't  they  ?  I  remember  all  sorts  of  utterly  uninteresting 
things." 

"Didn't  you  miss  me  at  all  when  I  went  away?" 

"Well,  you  see,  I  didn't  know  at  first  that  you 
had  gone — ' 

"And  you  weren't  a  bit  glad  to  see  me  again  after  all 
these  years  ?"  he  pleaded. 

She  remembered  the  suffering  of  that  day  which  she  had 
chosen  to  spend  at  home  because  he  was  staying  at  the 
Hall;  she  remembered  the  agonizing  shyness  of  her  meeting 
with  him  in  the  garden.  Honestly  she  answered: 

"No." 

129 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

He  was  silent. 

Close  beside  her  shoulder  a  late  primrose  stretched  up, 
as  if  it  would  whisper  in  her  ear;  bending  her  head  to  it 
she  dreamed.  .  .  . 

Warmth  and  sunshine  all  around — long  ago  a  primrose 
had  looked  at  her  so — a  little  girl  in  an  ugly  gray  frock — 
it  had  wondered  at  her  daring  then.  Was  this  one  wonder- 
ing, too  ?  And  there  was  a  blackbird  with  such  a  yellow 
beak — 'Do  you  know  why  blackbirds  always  wear  their 
Sunday  clothes,  Audrey  ? '  A  Panama  pulled  low  over 
gay  blue  eyes — a  little  girl  gazing  adoringly  at  a  square 
chin — the  scent  of  the  grass  warm  beneath  the  sun — 
somewhere  a  dog  had  barked — a  happy  sort  of  bark,  as  if 
he  had  to  express  his  exuberance  somehow — and  always 
the  primrose  had  watched.  .  .  . 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  dream  still  in  her  eyes.  He 
saw  it,  and  his  thoughts  leaped  back  again. 

"Audrey,"  he  said,  softly. 

She  turned  and  stroked  the  primrose  gently.  There 
were  a  few  others  round  them — little  pale  things  left  in 
a  world  of  dead  brethren,  cowering  among  the  kindly 
brown  bracken:  the  bracken  was  sheltering  them,  just  as 
Martin  was  sheltering  her. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "we  were  friends  long  ago." 

"Yes." 

"Then  you're  not  very  kind  to  me,  are  you  ?" 

Her  clear  eyes  met  his  thoughtfully;  she  pondered  the 
question  gravely. 

"Have  I  been  unkind  ?"  she  asked,  seriously.  "I  didn't 
know." 

He  had  not  expected  her  to  take  his  words  like  that. 
Looking  down  at  her,  his  face  grew  very  tender:  for  the 

130 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

minute  she  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  earnest  little  Audrey 
of  nine  years  ago. 

"There  is  no  earthly  reason  why  you  should  be  kind 
to  me,"  he  said.  "I  merely  met  you  a  few  times,  and 
thought  you  a  dear  quaint  little  kiddie.  Then  I  had  to 
go  away.  I  was  sorry  I  couldn't  say  good-bye — for  a  few 
minutes,"  her  childlike  honesty  impelled  him  to  tell  the 
truth.  "Then  I  forgot  all  about  you." 

She  stood  looking  out  straight  before  her.  She  was  wor- 
ried. Knowledge  was  stirring  within  her.  Guiltily  she 
knew  what  had  made  her  unkind  to  him,  and  to  her  it 
seemed  that  now  she  must  tell  him. 

"I've  bothered  you  now,"  he  said,  boyishly.  "Be 
as  unkind  to  me  as  you  like!  But  I'll  make  us  be 
friends  some  day!  Shall  I  pick  you  these  last  prim- 
roses ?" 

"No;  they'd  be  so  cold  all  the  way  to  the  Hall." 

"I'm  afraid  we  must  start." 

She  turned  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  why  I  wasn't  kinder,  or  more  pleased 
to  know  you  again,"  she  said,  simply.  "You  see,  when  I 
was  a  child  I  was  very  lonely.  And  I  made  a  hero  of  you. 
You  never  guessed  what  you  meant  to  me.  When  I  heard 
you  were  gone  it  nearly  broke  my  heart,  I  think.  Children 
take  things  so  tragically,  and  I  had  no  one  young — and  you 
had  been  so  kind.  For  months  I  waited  and  watched  for 
you  to  come  back.  For  years  I  clung  to  the  belief  that 
you  would  come  some  day.  But,  naturally  enough,  you 
had  forgotten  the  stray  child  whom  you  had  helped  with 
her  lessons."  She  paused. 

He  opened  his  mouth,  then  shut  it  without  saying  any- 
thing. He  could  not  make  excuses,  could  not  tell  a  half- 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

truth  to  her:  she  was  so  intensely  straightforward,  so 
young  and  simple  about  it. 

"When  you  came  back,  I — "  For  the  first  time  she 
found  it  difficult  to  explain.  "You  see,  I  meet  very  few 
people,  and  you  had  been — had  been  such  a  hero — I  was 
nervous,  and  then  I — I  think — it  was  very  silly  and  petty 
— I  wasn't  really  cross,"  she  hung  her  head  now,  and  her 
cheeks  were  red:  involuntarily  he  looked  for  the  long  pig- 
tails of  old.  "  But  I  think  I — I  was  trying  to  have  a  silly 
little  revenge." 

The  last  words  were  so  low  that  he  had  to  bend  his  head 
to  catch  them.  He  smiled  down  at  her. 

"You  see,  it  was — because — " 

He  cut  the  halting  words  short.     He  said,  very  gently: 

"I  think  I  understand,  and  I  think  it  was  just  splen- 
did of  you  to  tell  me!  It's  no  good  saying  now  that  I 
can't  understand  how  I  went  away  and  forgot  you  like 
that.  Boys  are  such  careless  brutes!  If  I'd  known  you 
cared  at  all,  I'd  never  have  done  it.  You  won't  punish 
me  any  more,  will  you  ?" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  laughed  shyly. 

"But  you  mustn't  pretend  to  remember  things!" 

"Never  again!     Honest  Ingin!     Will  you  shake  hands  ?" 

She  gave  him  her  hand. 

"It's  never  grown,"  he  said. 

She  turned  back  when  they  were  going,  and  picked  the 
primrose  that  had  stretched  up  towards  her  ear. 

"I  want  just  that  one,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AUDREY  sat  and  read. 

1\  Dotted  about  the  orchard,  Jimmy  and  Tommy  and 
Dickie  read  too.  Under  the  big  apple-tree,  Bobbie  and 
Euphemia  lay  fast  asleep.  Audrey  put  down  her  book, 
and  began  to  think. 

There  was  something  of  the  Puritan  in  her  in  spite  of 
her  mother's  doubts  about  it,  and  her  up-bringing  had 
fostered  it.  The  beauty  and  happiness  about  her  now 
almost  hurt  in  the  intensity  that  they  had  lately  taken 
upon  themselves.  And  she  sometimes  grew  frightened 
without  knowing  why.  Her  nature  had  been  starved  of 
so  much  that  most  girls  accept  without  thought  and  as 
their  due,  that  it  received  all  new  impressions  with  a  vivid 
sensitiveness  that  gave  them  perhaps  an  added  beauty, 
but  also  a  certain  almost  painful  poignancy. 

And  Audrey  found  that  now,  for  some  subtle  reason,  she 
could  not  talk  about  it  to  Marcia.  .  .  . 

She  was  so  happy!  That  morning  she  had  had  a  riding 
lesson.  Oh,  the  joy  of  the  realization  that  now  it  was 
"You're  out  of  step"  that  called  for  comment;  no  longer, 
"You're  in  step!"  How  she  loved  Robin!  And  soon 
she  was  to  have  a  short  ride  on  Dick's  brown  hunter.  She 
put  away  awful  visions  of  stumbles  and  broken  knees,  of 
a  mouth  spoiled  by  her  handling.  What  had  Martin 
said?  "You're  more  than  half  through  before  you've 

'33 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

begun — you  have  good  hands."  And  Martin  paid  no 
compliments  about  her  riding;  he  was  too  much  in  earnest. 
Hadn't  he  told  her  that  morning  not  to  sit  as  if  she  were 
an  advertisement  for  'correct  deportment  taught  in  our 
riding  -  school' ?  She  had  never  known  how  adorable 
horses  were  before;  it  seemed  queer  now  to  think  that 
once  she  had  been  almost  afraid  of  them.  Oh,  to  think 
of  the  ride  they  had  promised  her,  through  Gorston  woods, 
put  up  at  the  Rising  Sun,  have  lunch  there  and  tea,  and 
back  again  in  the  cool  evening — a  ride  through  the  sun- 
set. .  .  . 

She  took  a  pink  rose  from  her  belt,  and  bent  her  head 
to  smell  it.  It  was  the  first  one  out  in  the  garden  that 
year. 

Martin  had  found  it  and  picked  it  for  her. 

At  the  back  of  her  mind  was  a  picture  of  a  boyish  face, 
very  cross,  ludicrously  gloomy.  .  .  . 

Martin  had  gone  to  a  duty  lunch  at  a  house  six  miles 
away.  .  .  .  He  would  be  back  in  a  little  while — back  to  tea 
in  the  orchard.  Was  she  too  happy  ? 

"What's  the  matter,  child  ?"  Marcia  had  come  up  un- 
observed behind  her. 

Audrey  jumped. 

"Nothing,"  she  said.  Then,  hesitatingly:  "I  think  that's 
just  it!" 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  Marcia  leaned  against  the  back  of 
another  chair,  and  sighed. 

"Why  are  rector's  wives  so  often  unattractive  ?  It's  not 
a  riddle.  At  least,  it's  an  unanswerable  one,  I  suppose." 
She  sank  into  the  chair,  and  began  to  pull  out  her  hatpins. 
"Audrey,  now  I  put  it  to  you — isn't  my  costume  sim- 
plicity itself  ?" 

'34 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Audrey  looked  at  the  pale  gray  gown — so  pale  as  to  be 
almost  white,  and  made  very  simply — at  the  charming 
mauve  hat,  and  laughed.  She  was  wise  enough  to  qn- 
derstand  the  beauty  and  the  costliness  of  that  sim- 
plicity. 

"Oh  yes,  it's  very  simple,"  she  said,  demurely. 

"You're  laughing  at  me.  But,  my  dear,  it  invoked  a 
sermon  on  extravagance!  It  appears  that  it  could  have 
clothed  throughout  five  heathen  women!  I  said  that  I'd 

o 

never  be  so  cruel  as  to  clothe  one!  And  then  came  a  ser- 
mon on  frivolity.  And  then — worse — she  began  reckoning 
up  how  many  poor  children  my  unlucky  frock  could  have 
clothed!  And  that  did  make  me  a  little  uneasy.  Still,  I 
ventured  to  point  out  that  I  had  benefited  all  sorts  of  poor 
work-girls  by  having  such  a  nice  frock.  Audrey,  I  don't 
think  rectors'  wives  should  be  licensed  pryers  and  spyers. 
One  has  to  put  up  with  rudeness  from  them  that  one  would 
never  stand  from  any  one  else.  And,  of  course,  Mrs. 
Delaunay  'means  well.'  They  always  do.  She's  so  ex- 
actly the  type  that's  always  taken  off  in  novels  that  she 
never  seems  quite  real  to  me." 

"I'm  terrified  of  her,"  Audrey  confessed. 

"I  wouldn't  let  her  get  you  into  her  clutches,"  Marcia 
said,  smiling.  "There  are  all  sorts  of  martyr-and-duty- 
possibilities  in  you.  And  now  I  suppose  I  must  take  that 
horrid  book  on  chemistry  to  Professor  Forbes!" 

"I  will!     Let  me!"  Audrey  said,  eagerly. 

Marcia  looked  at  her  from  beneath  raised  brows. 

"And  tea  coming!  Tea  here — and  tea  in  that  stuffy 
little  drawing-room  at  'The  Laurels.'  Did  you  ever  hear 
Martin's  riddle  about  that  room?  'Why  is  Mrs.  Forbes' 
drawing-room  immoral  ?  Because  it  has  no  character!' 

'35 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

I  can't  let  you  take  the  book,  and  I  can't  send  it,  because 
she'll  be  hurt." 

"  But  she  won't  be  hurt  if  I  explain  that  you  were  tired." 
There  was  an  urgent  note  in  Audrey's  voice. 

"Oh  no,  she  would  like  you  to  go.  She  is  very  fond  of 
you,  poor  little  woman.  It  must  be  very  terrible  to  be  as 
tactless  as  she  is,"  Marcia  said,  thoughtfully.  "She's  the 
sort  of  woman  who  invariably  chooses  cream  as  her  topic 
of  conversation  when  talking  to  any  one  suffering  from  a 
sick  headache.  Very  well,  if  you  really  mean  it,  child, 
you  shall  go."  Audrey  went  with  a  certain  involved 
joy.  She  was  glad  to  do  anything  for  Marcia,  and,  con- 
fusedly, she  had  the  feeling  that  by  spoiling,  even  momen- 
tarily, her  exquisite  happiness,  she  was  perhaps  laying  an 
offering,  however  small,  of  a  conciliatory  nature  upon  the 
knees  of  the  gods. 

She  was  frankly  afraid  of  the  Professor,  who,  like  many 
learned  people,  considered  that  his  learning  gave  him  the 
right  to  be  as  brusque  and  rude  in  his  manner  as  he  liked. 
She  declared  she  felt  a  worm  in  his  presence,  and  such  a 
small,  insignificant  worm,  too. 

Mrs.  Forbes  was  in  what  she  called  her  work-room:  it 
was  an  ugly  little  room — the  sort  of  room  that  becomes  a 
storehouse  for  bits  of  furniture  grown  too  old-fashioned 
and  shabby  for  the  other  rooms.  It  was  carpeted,  too,  with 
a  faded  carpet,  the  red-and-blue  coloring  of  which  clashed 
horribly  with  the  green-and-pink  wall-paper,  but  which 
had  been  brought  from  the  Professor's  study  when  grown 
too  shabby  for  his  use.  It  was  essentially  Mrs.  Forbes'  own 
room,  and  it  typified  what  her  clothes,  too,  proclaimed, 
that  nothing  mattered  just  for  her. 

When  Audrey  entered   she   raised   her    amiable    little 
136 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

rabbit  face,  with  a  worried  smile,  from  a  pile  of  fools- 
cap sheets,  scribbled  over  with  bewildering  hieroglyphics 
in  the  Professor's  undecipherable  handwriting.  She  looked 
pale,  and  her  eyes  were  strained. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  knew  you  wouldn't  mind  coming  in 
here.  I'm  so  dreadfully  busy,  and  I  haven't  any  brains  at 
all  to-day.  I  suppose  it's  because  my  head  aches  so.  Oh, 
that  book  ?  Thank  you,  dear.  I'll  take  it  to  the  labora- 
tory presently,  but  I  must  not  disturb  the  Professor  till 
he  rings  for  me.  I  wonder  can  you  decipher  this  word 
for  me?" 

Audrey  bent  over  the  sheet  held  out  to  her,  and  stared 
appalled. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  read  any  of  it!" 
"It's  queer  that  clever  men  always  write  such  intricate 
hands,  isn't  it  ?"  A  gleam  of  pride  flitted  across  her  pale 
face.  "I  am  to  have  all  this  copied  out  by  five  o'clock. 
I  have  worked  at  it  since  two,  and  not  done  half!  And 
now  I'm  so  flurried  and  nervous  I  cannot  read  it  at  all! 
Oh,  dear  me!"  Tears  stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  gazed  at  a 
great  blot  her  pen  had  made. 

"Why  doesn't  the  Professor  have  his  papers  typed  by 
some  one  ?"  Audrey  asked,  the  impatience  she  always 
experienced  when  brought  in  contact  with  him  and  his 
wife  sharpening  her  voice  a  little. 

"The-exact-shade' — he  objects  to  typing,  my  dear, 
and  these  notes  are  for  himself,  you  know — 'suggested-in- 
the-time-of-Hen-ry-the-seventh.'  He  can't  read  his  own 
notes!"  with  an  indulgent  smile. 

"I  wish  I  could  help  you.  Are  they  very  important? 
Will  he  want  them  to-day  ?" 

"Oh  no.      He   is  experimenting  with — with — I  forget 
137 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

the  name — to-day,  but  he  always  likes  his  notes  copied  out 
at  once.  Oh,  my  dear,  here  is  a  whole  sentence  I  cannot 
make  out!  Is  that  'are'  or  'am'  ?  Oh,  and  it's  half-past 
four!  My  head  throbs  so,  I  really  can  hardly  see!" 

"But  why  don't  you  tell  the  Professor  that  your  head 
aches,  and  that  you  will  copy  his  notes  out  to-mor- 
row?" 

"Oh  no!  No!  I  would  sooner  try  to  do  them.  You 
don't  understand.  Such  little  things  put  out  these  clever 
men,  and  perhaps  spoil  some  great  thought.  Oh,  'chem- 
ical'— that's  a  clue." 

The  door  was  opened  harshly,  and  the  Professor  came  in. 

"I  shall  put  down  poison!  I  will  not  stand  that  dog's 
barking  another  day!  How  are  you  ?  Yes,  he  barked 
twice  this  afternoon,  and  the  last  time  was  disastrous! 
Dis-astrous!  Why  people  keep  dogs,  I  cannot  imagine! 
Ridiculous!  Unhealthy!  They  bring  microbes  and  filth 
into  the  house.  They  have  fleas.  Have  you  finished 
those  notes,  Martha  ?" 

Audrey  was  convinced,  from  the  expression  of  his  face, 
that  he  had  forgotten  the  notes  till  he  caught  sight  of  them. 

"I  sha'n't  be  very  long,  Ambrose!  Only  a  few  minutes 
or  so!" 

"A  few  minutes!  Why,"  bending  over  the  table  till  his 
nose  nearly  touched  the  papers,  "you've  not  copied  out 
more  than  half!  It's  marvellous  to  me  how  women  can 
be  so  slow!  They  make  no  use  of  their  brains,  and  their 
hands—" 

"Mrs.  Forbes  has  a  bad  headache." 

The  Professor  turned  and  peered;  he  had  forgotten 
Audrey's  presence,  and  her  clear  young  voice  had  in- 
terrupted him  in  the  beginning  of  one  of  his  favorite 

138 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

homilies.  And  the  Professor  was  entirely  unused  to  in- 
terruption of  any  sort. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing!  I  can  do  them.  I  won't  be  long!" 
Mrs.  Forbes  cast  an  ungrateful  glance  at  Audrey. 

"A  woman's  headache,"  said  the  Professor,  staring  at 
Audrey,  "implies,  as  a  rule,  disinclination,  impatience, 
irritability,  or  laziness — 

"  In  this  instance  " — quaking  but  righteously  indignant 
Audrey  spoke  out — "it  implies  a  bad  pain  in  the  head!" 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  in  that  pause  a  certain 
antagonism,  which  the  Professor  had  already  experienced 
towards  her,  materialized  into  enmity.  The  Professor 
had  in  his  nature  a  spitefulness  popularly  supposed  to  be 
a  feminine  attribute,  and  a  tremendous  sense  of  his  own 
dignity — a  sense  so  petty  as  to  make  him  always  afraid  of 
some  hurt;  always  on  the  look-out  for  slights;  for  non- 
appreciation  of  his  mental  stature.  He  decided  that 
Audrey  had  failed  towards  him  in  due  diffidence  and  re- 
spect. And  after  she  had  gone  he  began  to  brood:  no 
subject,  provided  only  that  in  some  way,  however  slight,  it 
had  relation  to  himself,  was  too  slight  for  him  to  ponder; 
and  as  is  the  way  with  spiteful  natures  which  also  brood, 
Audrey's  delinquency  grew. 

"That  girl,"  quoth  the  Professor  to  his  pale  wife  that 
night,  "was  impertinent." 

Mrs.  Forbes  made  feeble  excuses;  and,  as  was  her 
wont,  succeeded  in  making  him  angrier  than  before,  for  with 
her  customary  tactlessness  she  hesitatingly  suggested, 
in  a  roundabout  way,  that  his  lordly  mind  had  perhaps 
been  just  a  little  ruffled  by  the  barking  of  his  neighbor's 
dog. 

She  was  fully  aware  that  his  possession  of  a  calm  and 
139 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

well-regulated  mind,  was  one  of  his  most  cherished  beliefs; 
she  knew  that  nothing  angered  him  more  than  a  suggestion 
of  any  outside  thing  being  capable  of  ruffling  him.  And 
she  blundered,  trying  to  help  Audrey,  straight  on  to  the 
excuse  that  of  all  others  would  anger  him  most. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AUDREY  read  in  the  garden  alone. 
1~\     Every  one  had  gone:  Marcia  and  the  children  to 
spend  the  afternoon  with  friends;  Dick  and  Martin  after 
a  horse  described  as  possessing  every  equine  virtue,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  "going  dirt-cheap." 

It  was  very  hot.  Audrey  let  her  book  slip  to  her  knee, 
and  gazed  dreamily  up  at  the  blue  sky  till  her  eyes  were 
dazzled. 

Something  cold  and  damp  was  insinuated  into  her 
hand;  she  jumped,  looked  down,  and  met  Euphemia's 
entreating  eyes. 

She  said:  "No,  Euphemia,  no." 

Euphemia  laid  her  beautiful  head  into  her  lap,  and 
wagged  her  tail. 

Euphemia  had  never  yet  been  known  to  take  "no"  as 
final.  Now  she  was  intensely  bored;  the  butterflies  that 
afternoon  flew  irritatingly  high;  there  was  a  sameness  of 
flavor  about  tennis-balls  that  palled  after  a  time;  cook 
was  unreasonable  about  tidbits.  Euphemia  wished  to  go 
for  a  walk,  and  she  fully  intended  that  her  wish  should  be 
gratified  by  Audrey. 

Audrey  averted  her  eyes. 

"Don't  fidget,  Euphemia!"  she  said,  rather  crossly. 

Euphemia's  wag  held  a  hint  of  approaching  triumph  in 
its  convolutions.  She  understood  every  shade  of  tone  that 

141 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

was  wont  to  respond  to  her  cajoleries:  the  firm,  decided 
negative;  then  the  irritable  command  to  desist,  that  signi- 
fied the  annoyance  of  the  speaker  at  her  own  weakness, 
as  she  felt  her  resolution  slackening;  then  sharper  irrita- 
tion; more  negatives,  probably  amplified  by  reasons  this 
time;  then  doubt,  then  acquiescence. 

Audrey  went  through  it  all. 

"Lie  down,  Euphemia!     Do  you  hear?     Lie  down!" 

With  heart-breaking  meekness  Euphemia  lay  down, 
close,  so  that  she  could  plead  with  a  slapping  paw. 

Audrey  moved  her  foot  from  the  vicinity  of  the  paw, 
and  shut  her  eyes. 

Euphemia  dragged  herself  along  the  lawn,  and  slapped 
her  again.  Audrey  opened  her  eyes  to  chide,  and  was 
met  with  a  gaze  of  liquid  love,  and  a  frantic  paw  and 
tail. 

"No,  Euphemia!  I  can't  come  out,  it's  too  hot!  And 
I'm  terrified  to  take  you  all  alone;  you  are  so  naughty 
sometimes.  I  can't  really,  Euphemia.  No!  I  don't 
want  to  walk.  I  feel  too  lazy.  It's  so  hot,  Euphemia." 

Euphemia  understood  exactly  the  moment  when  she 
might  presume  just  a  little.  At  the  pleading  note  in  the 
last  words  she  pricked  her  ears;  she  rose,  gave  a  short, 
sharp  bark,  and  hurled  herself  against  Audrey's  knee. 

"No,  Euphemia!  I  didn't  say  I  would!  Don't  be 
silly!  Be  quiet,  Euphemia!  I  wonder  if  there  is  a  breeze 
outside  ?  It's  so  terribly  hot.  ...  If  we  walked  towards 
Millbridge  .  .  .  Oh,  I  can't  .  .  .  Oh,  I  suppose  I  shall. 
Very  well.  We'll  go  for  a  walk,  Euphemia,  if  you'll  be  a 
good  girl.  Will  you  be  good — good,  Euphemia  ?  Through 
those  lanes  we  can't  meet  motor-cars.  Oh,  darling,  you 
will  be  good,  won't  you  ?" 

142 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Euphemia's  agonized  wriggles  promised  an  angelic 
goodness. 

They  set  out. 

The  lanes  were  very  hot;  the  hedges  very  dusty.  Au- 
drey thought  the  wild  roses  looked  thirsty.  But  it  was  a 
lovely  afternoon.  She  cast  an  apprehensive  glance  towards 
Euphemia,  who  had  a  disconcerting  habit  of  developing  an 
unexpected  independence  out-of-doors.  All  the  clinging 
love,  the  pretty  dependence  that  were  hers  in  the  house, 
left  her  now.  She  was  businesslike,  intensely  interested  in 
her  own  concerns;  impatient  of  Audrey's  presence,  if  it 
interfered  ever  so  slightly  with  her  own  convenience. 

Audrey  felt  that  she  had  no  real  authority  over  the  nosing 
creature.  She  began  to  wonder  why  she  had  brought  her 
with  her.  But  it  was  a  lovely  day;  she  was  glad  she  had 
come  out.  She  turned  to  see  Euphemia  trotting  across  the 
road  with  something  in  her  mouth. 

"A  rabbit!     Oh,  she  has  caught  a  rabbit!" 

Her  voice  rang  out,  such  agonized  command  in  its  tone 
that  involuntarily  Euphemia  obeyed  the  order  to  '  drop 
it.'  She  opened  her  mouth,  and  a  bedraggled  yellow 
chicken  fell  with  a  soft  flop  onto  the  dusty  road. 

Audrey  ran  to  it,  picked  it  up.  It  was  dead.  She  turn- 
ed on  Euphemia,  but  Euphemia  had  trotted  back  to  the 
ditch;  she  returned  with  another  chicken  in  her  mouth, 
and  dropped  it  proudly  at  Audrey's  feet.  It  was  as  dead 
as  its  brother. 

"Poor  little  things!"  Audrey's  wrath  rose  high.  She 
raised  the  dog's  whip,  but  Euphemia,  tongue  lolling, 
watched  from  a  discreet  distance.  Then  followed  a  dis- 
tressing chase.  Audrey  was  determined  that  Euphemia 
should  be  punished;  Euphemia  was  equally  determined 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

that  she  should  not.  Threats  failed  to  have  any  effect 
upon  her;  she  was  fat,  but  she  was  a  born  dodger — that 
sort  of  moralless  dog  invariably  is.  Audrey,  uncomforta- 
bly hot,  very  angry,  gave  up  all  idea  of  punishment,  and 
descended  to  cajolery.  She  wanted  now  to  fix  the  whip  to 
Euphemia's  collar,  and  lead  her,  so  that  she  could  kill  no 
more  chickens.  At  her  change  of  tone — "All  right.  I 
won't  beat  you.  Come  here,  Euphemia" — Euphemia 
flung  her  legs  about  in  a  ridiculous  puppyish  abandon,  but 
still  fled.  Audrey,  hating  her  with  a  most  vindictive  ha- 
tred, descended  to  stronger  cajoleries,  but  they  were  of  no 
avail,  merely  producing  more  puppy  abandonment  and 
the  same  crafty  dodging. 

Audrey  turned  from  her  at  last,  and,  with  a  quaking 
heart,  picked  up  the  chickens.  She  hesitated,  nervously 
eying  the  little  farm  -  house  that  stood  back  from  the 
road,  with  an  exceedingly  untidy  garden  in  front  of  it. 
But  her  duty  seemed  clear  to  her.  She  pitied  herself 
almost  as  much  as  she  pitied  the  poor  little  dead  chick- 
ens. She  stroked  the  yellow  down  softly.  Then  she 
lifted  her  head  high,  pushed  open  the  broken  gate,  and 
went  up  to  the  door.  Hens  fled  expostulating  before  her; 
she  looked  back  nervously  at  Euphemia  peering  through 
the  gate.  Suppose  she  were  to  jump  it  ?  Suppose  she, 
too,  were  to  push  it  open  ?  She  tapped  timidly  on  the 
door,  which  was  ajar,  then  waited.  After  a  while  she 
tapped  again  —  louder  this  time.  The  next  minute  a 
man's  footsteps  echoed  within.  Her  heart  sank.  A  man! 
"  Why  wasn't  he  out  at  work  ?"  she  thought,  indignantly. 

She  looked  up  into  an  exceedingly  red  face — a  face 
framed  in  red  whiskers,  and  possessing  a  humorous  red 
nose.  The  man  glanced  down  at  the  chickens  in  her  hand. 

144 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Two  more!"  he  ejaculated.  "What  chance  does  a 
man  shtand  these  times,  what  wid  the  ould  hins  not  layin' 
and  the  young  ones  down  with  the  gapes  ?" 

She  only  half  heard  what  he  said. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said.  "I  have  never  known  her 
do  it  before.  It  was  my  dog." 

He  glanced  from  her  to  Euphemia  peering  through  the 
gate.  "They  was  valuable  chickens,  miss,  the  pick  o'  the 
lot.  I'd  not  be  sellin'  thim  for  less — "  a  pause,  a  keen 
glance  at  her  face,  "for  less  than  five  shilluns  the  pair  of 
thim." 

Audrey  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"But  they  are  very  small"  she  ventured. 

"At  present,"  he  said,  with  dignity.  "But  the  eggs 
they'd  be  layin'  and  thim  a  valuable  breed,  a  breed  that  '11 
lay  a  dozen  eggs  to  another  hin's  one,  and  do  it  aisy,  too! 
'Tis  shootin'  that's  good  enough  for  the  dog  that'll  kill — " 

She  heard  the  gate  creak;  and  he  was  getting  angry;  she 
was  sure  his  face  was  redder.  .  .  . 

"I  am  very  sorry.     I  will  pay  you  for  them,  of  course." 

Five  shillings!  Walking  sadly  down  the  lane,  smarting 
beneath  the  conviction  that  she  had  been  cheated,  she 
mourned  the  loss  of  all  the  money  she  had  in  the  world 
just  then.  And  if  Euphemia  were  to  find  and  kill  any 
more  chickens,  what  was  she  to  do  ?  There  followed  a 
hot  and  anxious  quarter  of  an  hour,  spent  in  trying  to  catch 
Euphemia,  and  spent  quite  vainly.  Audrey,  relinquish- 
ing the  idea  as  hopeless,  started  for  the  Hall  at  a  brisk 
pace.  She  was  hot  and  breathless,  and  the  dusty  road  lay 
before  her  in  an  apparently  unending  line.  When  she  was 
about  half-way  down  it,  she  became  aware  of  a  commotion 
in  the  field  on  her  left.  It  was  an  unmistakable  com- 

H5 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

motion;  she  gave  one  despairing  glance  round  for  Euphe- 
mia,  knowing  she  would  not  see  her,  then  ran  up  the  road 
to  the  gate  leading  into  the  field.  It  was  a  large  field,  and 
in  the  farther  corner  she  saw  a  fawn  dog,  tongue  out,  chas- 
ing fowls.  The  noise  was  awful.  Euphemia  was  in  their 
very  midst;  they  were  scattering  and  screaming,  fluttering 
and  gasping  in  every  direction.  Audrey  flung  herself 
over  the  gate;  her  voice  called  frantically  to  Euphemia; 
her  whistle  died  breathlessly  on  her  lips.  She  foresaw, 
terrified,  a  wholesale  destruction  of  the  hens.  She  ran, 
her  heart  throbbing  in  her  throat;  she  was  so  hot  that 
she  could  scarcely  breathe.  A  man,  attracted  by  the  noise, 
had  come  into  the  field.  He  shouted  to  her  to  call  ofF 
her  dog;  he  yelled  out  that  his  master  had  sworn  he  would 
shoot  the  next  dog  that  worried  his  fowls.  She  tried  to 
run  faster.  She  saw  Euphemia  on  top  of  a  white  shrieking 
hen.  .  .  .  She  cracked  the  whip.  She  chased  her,  but 
Euphemia  was  blind  and  deaf  to  all  but  the  sport  which 
engrossed  her. 

Some  one  swung  over  the  gate;  a  new  voice  rang  out, 
a  strong  whistle.  Euphemia  cocked  an  ear,  then  went 
on  her  way  unheeding.  Martin  was  near  in  a  few  long 
strides;  the  man  found  himself  silently  obeying  orders 
delivered  in  an  authoritative  tone;  the  next  minute  Eu- 
phemia found  herself  trapped.  Martin  turned  to  Audrey. 
"Give  me  the  whip,"  he  said. 

The  air  was  rent  by  Euphemia's  howls.  Never  had  she 
received  such  a  whole-hearted  whipping  as  she  was  given 
then.  The  short  sharp  cuts  fell  unerringly — they  actually 
pierced  through  her  silky  coat,  and  hurt  exceedingly.  The 
whip  was  then  passed  through  her  collar,  and  Euphemia, 
meek  and  subdued,  walked  sedately  at  Martin's  side. 

146 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Audrey,  all  the  hot  little  pulses  in  head  and  throat  dying 
down,  turned  with  him. 

"You're  done  up,"  he  said,  gently.     "Little  devil!" 

"Don't  call  me  names, "she  said,  smiling,  and  wondering 
what  he  would  have  thought  had  she  subsided,  upon  his 
appearance,  onto  the  grass  and  wept. 

"I  am  very  hot,"  she  added. 

"You  shouldn't  have  brought  her  out.  She's  not  fit  for 
you  to  take  out.  That  fool  of  a  man,  who  just  stood  and 
shouted,  needn't  have  got  so  excited;  she'd  never  hurt  a 
fowl.  She  only  chases  them  for  devilry." 

"Oh  no!"  she  exclaimed,  involuntarily.  Then  weakly 
striving  to  shield  the  punished  Euphemia:  "Dogs  who 
take  to  killing  fowls  are  dreadfully  hard  to  cure,  aren't 
they  ?  Isn't  the  road  dusty  ?" 

He  glanced  at  her  keenly.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  the 
whole  story  from  her. 

"Maloney,"  he  said  at  the  finish,  and  he  smiled  grimly. 
"There's  a  bank  along  here  under  some  beeches  that 
makes  an  awfully  comfortable  seat,"  he  told  her.  "It's 
just  round  a  bend  where  you'll  get  what  breeze  there  is." 
He  looked  down  into  her  hot  face, and  said, savagely:  "I'd 
like  to  kill  Euphemia.  She's  given  you  a  beastly  after- 
noon." 

"Oh  no.  I'm  silly  to  get  so  hot,  and — and  to  mind  so 
much.  It  is  very  hot,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Awful.  Here  we  are;  now  you  sit  there.  I'm  just  go- 
ing along  to  speak  to  Maloney.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

"Oh!     Oh,  don't  go!    Why  are  you  going?" 

"  Back  in  a  minute,"  he  called  over  his  shoulder. 

Poor  Audrey!  New  terrors  assailed  her  now.  She 
saw  Martin  and  the  big,  red  man  clasped  in  a  deadly  em- 

H7 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

brace.     She  was  sure  Maloney  would  never  return  any 
of  the  money.  .  .  .  And  he  was  such  a  huge  man.  .  .  . 

Martin  came  swinging  along  the  road;  he  waved  his  hat 
to  her.  In  the  other  hand  a  basket.  "Hurrah!  Straw- 
berries!" he  shouted,  boyishly,  "hot  from  the  sun!  And 
I  haven't  touched  one!  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 

He  laid  two  half-crowns  in  her  lap. 

"With  Maloney 's  compliments.  Chickens  died  from 
the  gapes." 

"Oh,  was  he  very  angry?     What  a  wicked  man!" 

He  eyed  her  amusedly. 

"  It  must  have  been  very  tempting,  you  know.  He  de- 
scribed it  to  me." 

"Did — did  he  want  to  fight  you  ?" 

"Fight  me?  Great  Heavens,  no!  He's  Irish,  you 
know.  Whole  thing  quite  natural  to  him.  Was  I  very 
long  ?  Set  all  the  little  Maloneys  to  pick  the  strawberries. 
They'd  just  been  having  a  dip  in  the  river,"  he  added,  his 
mouth  twisting  humorously.  "Aren't  you  going  to  start  ? 
If  you  don't  take  that  big,  bumpy  chap  there,  I  shall  in  a 
minute.  I've  resisted  him  all  the  way  from  Maloney 's." 

She  took  it,  laughing  greedily. 

"He  does  taste  good!"  she  said,  biting  into  it. 

"Give  me  the  rest  ?"  he  besought. 

"Don't  spoil  your  magnanimity." 

"But  I  want  it.  I  really  do."  He  was  very  much  in 
earnest  now.  She  felt  her  color  deepening,  and,  with  a 
laugh,  popped  the  rest  of  the  strawberry  into  her  mouth. 

He  looked  aggrieved. 

"You're  unkind." 

"You  shall  choose  next,"  she  said,  soothingly. 

"You  choose  for  me." 

148 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

She  picked  out  a  small  green  berry,  and  handed  it  to  him 
gravely. 

He  took  it  meekly  and  ate  it. 

Remorse  immediately  seized  upon  her,  and  she  gave  him 
a  great  juicy  berry. 

Then  they  both  laughed  joyously, 

"  Sha'n't  we  forgive  Euphemia  ?"  she  said,  hesitatingly. 

He  smiled  down  into  her  anxious  face. 

"Would  you  be  as  forgiving  to  me  ?" 

She  considered. 

"  I  can't  imagine  you  chasing  fowls  and  dodging  me — " 

"No,  I  should  never  dodge  you,"  he  put  in.  "Well,  you 
may  forgive  her." 

Euphemia  wagged  her  tail  graciously;  but  her  exuberance 
at  being  forgiven  was  not  overwhelming:  she  did  not  care 
for  strawberries,  and  she  was  very  sleepy. 

But  Audrey  derived  great  satisfaction  from  the  proceed- 
ing. "I  feel  happier  now,"  she  said.  "Don't  you  ?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  he  declared,  hard-heartedly.  "I  wasn't 
troubling  about  her." 

She  looked  disapproving. 

"Are  you  sorry  I  whipped  her  ?"  he  asked  curiously,  and 
was  surprised  at  her  unhesitating — 

"No."  She  added,  honestly:  "But  I'd  sooner  you  did 
it  than  I.  I'm  glad  you  whipped  her." 

"Hard-hearted!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  seriously. 

"Am  I  ?     She  was  very  naughty,  she  has  to  be  taught — " 

He  burst  out  laughing. 

"Did  you  think  I  meant  it  ?     You,  hard-hearted  ?" 

"A  gypsy  once  told  my  fortune  " — her  face  shadowed  as 
she  remembered  the  punishment  that  followed  the  episode, 

149 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

-"and  she  said  that  I  had  great  firmness  of  character; 
so,  you  see,  I'm  not  weakly  soft." 

"Did  I  say  you  were  ?" 

"Your  laugh  said  so." 

"Tell  me  what  the  gypsy  prognosticated  for  you." 

Suddenly  the  pink  in  her  cheeks  began  to  deepen;  she 
turned  her  head  away. 

"Oh,  what  a  lovely  breeze!"  she  said. 

"Won't  you  tell  me?" 

"Tell  you  what?  Oh,  my  fortune.  Yes,  but  it's  so 
long  ago.  Let  me  see.  There  was  to  be  a  fair  woman 
who  hated  me."  She  plucked  a  blade  of  grass,  and  tickled 
Euphemia's  ear  with  it.  "And  I  was  to  make  a  very  good 
marriage." 

"Were  you?     Yes?    Goon." 

"There  wasn't  much  else.  I  was  to  be  married  twice. 
I  remember  pondering  the  decease  of  my  first  husband 
with  much  sadness." 

"Didn't  she  describe  your  husband  to  you  ?" 

"Husbands,"  she  corrected. 

"  Well,  what  was  the  first  to  be  like  ?" 

"Let  me  see — tall — " 

"Yes." 

"And  fair—" 

"Yes." 

Suddenly,  to  her  horror,  she  found  herself  telling  a 
falsehood. 

"With  black  eyes!"  she  said,  hurriedly,  and  then  sat 
appalled  at  her  own  depravity.  For  the  gypsy  had  said 
his  eyes  would  be  blue.  Why  had  she  told  such  a  horrid 
fib  ?  She  had  never  done  such  a  thing  before.  She  had 
not  meant  to  do  it  now,  but — somehow — it  had  slipped  out. 

150 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"The  gypsy,"  said  Martin,  crossly,  "must  have  been  a 
fool.  No  one  can  call  a  man  with  black  eyes  fair." 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "I  —  I  have  for- 
gotten." 

"That's  it.  I  expect  you  have.  I  say,"  he  bent  his 
head  and  looked  into  her  face,  "don't  you  think  he  had 
blue  eyes  ?" 

"I— I  don't  know— " 

"  Say  you  think  so,"  he  coaxed,  his  blue  eyes  very  tender, 
and  to  her  irresistible. 

"I — think  they  were,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice;  and  then 
suddenly  out  it  came — another  falsehood:  "He  had  a 
black  mustache!" 

"Oh!"  Martin  sat  back,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"Isn't  it  all  arrant  rubbish  ?"  he  said.  "You  don't  be- 
lieve in  it,  surely  ?" 

And  suddenly  she  did  not  care  a  bit  that  she  had  told 
another  falsehood — a  worse  one,  this  time.  And  she  went 
on  telling  them,  quite  recklessly,  and  enjoying  herself 
immensely. 

"Oh  yes!  My  gypsy  was  a  real  one,  a  real,  old,  genuine 
gypsy.  I'm  always  looking  out  for  the  husband  she  gave 
me." 

"  I  should  think  he'd  give  you  rather  a  shock  when  you 
see  him,"  observed  Martin,  unkindly.  "A  creature  with 
golden  hair  and  a  black  mustache  and  one  eye  blue  and 
the  other  black!" 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,"  she  said,  with  dignity.  "It  is 
just  the  type  I  like.  Fair  doesn't  necessarily  mean  golden 
hair,  it  only  means  that  his  complexion  and  hair  will  be 
lighter  than  his  mustache." 

"I'm  glad  he  isn't  to  be  a  nigger,  anyway.     If  his  com- 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

plexion  weren't  lighter  than  his  mustache  he'd  be  a  darkie. 
What  was  your  second  like  ?" 

"I  don't  seem  to  remember  anything  about  him." 

She  grew  hot  as  poignant  memory  swept  upon  her. 
She  knew  why  she  remembered  nothing  of  that  second 
husband:  there  had  been  no  room  for  thought  of  him  in 
the  foolish  little  overjoyed  heart  that  read  Prince  Charm- 
ing into  the  gypsy's  description.  She  saw  again  the  dusty 
road,  the  hedge,  on  the  other  side  of  which  her  mother 
plucked  blackberries;  the  beguiling  dark -faced  gypsy;  her 
one  and  only  sixpence  going  into  an  ever-ready  pocket; 
then  the  trembling  little  girl  in  the  dingy  frock  extending 
a  small  hand,  and  the  tumultuous  sentimental  joy  over  the 
fair  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  tallness  of  the  promised  husband. 

"I'm  quite  sure  that  first  fellow's  eyes  were  blue,  and  he 
was  clean-shaven,"  Martin  remarked,  obstinately. 

"The  predilection  for  a  black  mustache  runs  in  our 
family.  Poor  Amelia  loved  a  young  man  once  who  had 
a  black  mustache." 

Martin  said: 

"After  all,  there's  Tatcho  and  blacking." 

"Euphemia,"  Audrey  said,  "I  love  even  you  now.  Oh, 
what  a  glorious  afternoon  it  is!  I  wish  I  could  bottle  tons 
and  tons  of  all  these  scents,  and  smell  them  in  the  winter. 
Honeysuckle  and  hay,  oh,  and  summer  warmth!" 

"There  are  three  strawberries  left,"  he  said,  "and  I 
forget  whose  turn  it  is.  What  are  we  to  do  ?" 

She  looked  into  the  basket. 

"  Isn't  it  funny  how  all  the  little  unripe  ones  get  left  ? 
You  may  have  the  two  green  ones,  and  I'll  have  the  little 
greeny-pink  one.  That's  fair." 

They  sat  on  there,  talking  sometimes,  and  sometimes 
152 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

silent.  They  quite  forgot  to  go  home  for  tea.  Evening 
crept  on  softly,  very  beautifully.  Cows  passed  them,  go- 
ing home  to  be  milked,  the  sun  flickering  down  upon  their 
coats  in  patches  through  the  leaves  of  the  great  trees  whose 
branches  met  across  the  road.  Once  sheep  passed,  the  old 
collie  with  them  disdaining  to  notice  Euphcmia,  who 
coquetted  for  his  benefit,  but  dared  not  molest  the  sheep. 
Farther  down  the  road  a  little  gray  donkey  cropped  the 
grass  at  the  side  of  the  road.  It  was  the  donkey  who 
broke  the  spell  of  forgetfulness  that  had  fallen  upon 
Audrey. 

He  brayed  suddenly.  She  jumped,  and  looked  about 
with  reawakened  eyes. 

"What  is  the  time  ?"  she  asked. 

He  drew  out  his  watch  and  stared. 

"By  Jove,  it's  a  quarter  past  five!" 

"Oh!" 

She  rose. 

"  I  suppose  you  want  some  tea  ?"  he  said. 

"Not  particularly.  I  didn't  dream  it  was  so  late,  did 
you  ?" 

He  bent  his  head  to  her. 

"Audrey,  we — it's  so  nice  being  together — I  mean,  won't 
you  stay  with  me  ?  Will  you  come  for  a  ride  before  din- 
ner? Say  you  will.  There's  time." 

"I  should  love  it." 

"You — "  he  bit  the  word  off,  and  added  a  sober:  "It's 
awfully  good  of  you.  Will  you  ride  the  brown  ?" 

"If  I  may." 

"Dick  said  you  could  have  him  whenever  you  liked." 

"Let's  hurry,"  she  said.  "You  will  ride  Blackbird, 
won't  you  ?" 

153 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"There's  your  tea — " 

"Oh,  I   don't  want  any;   the   strawberries  were   my 
tea." 

Marcia's  maid  smiled  proudly  as  she  helped  her  into  a 
skirt  that  had  belonged  to  Marcia. 

"It  doesn't  look  so  bad,  does  it,  miss  ?" 

It  was  her  invariable  remark  on  such  occasions. 

Joyously  Audrey  answered: 

"You've   altered    it   beautifully,  Walker!     And   it's   so 
comfortable!" 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  in  one  of  Bowen's  habits,  miss," 
Walker  said.     "You  look  very  well  on  a  horse." 

"Twenty  guineas,  Walker!     I'm  afraid  you'll  never  see 
me  in  one  of  Bowen's  habits!" 

She  laughed  as  she  ran  down-stairs. 

"Shall  we  go  to  the  Abbey  ?"  Martin  asked. 

"Yes,  if  we've  time." 
,     "We  can  just  do  it." 

"I  must  just  speak  to  Redcap." 

Redcap  was   a   horse   Martin   had   just   bought   from 
Dick.     Audrey  adored  him. 

She  had  not  yet  quite  got  beyond  a  thrill  of  satisfaction 
on  finding  herself  in  step  when  her  horse  started  to  trot. 

Martin  said: 

You  gathered  your  reins  up  better  to-day." 

"Did  I?     I'm  glad." 

His  seriousness  over  her  riding  always  pleased  her. 

She  rode  dreamily  awhile;  then  she  said: 

"It  makes  one  wonder  what  beautiful  things  one  may 
be  missing." 

"Riding  does?" 

She  nodded. 

154 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"I  hadn't  had  any  special  longing  to  ride  till  you  sug- 
gested it." 

"  I'm  glad  it  was  I  who  suggested  it,"  he  said,  in  a  tone 
of  content. 

She  was  startled  at  the  emphatic  sense  of  agreement  that 
she  felt;  the  idea  of  her  owing  it  to  any  one  else  was  dis- 
tasteful to  her.  Her  heart  quickened  a  little. 

The  breeze  had  freshened;  it  blew  with  cool  softness  in 
their  faces.  All  along  the  road  the  scent  of  the  honey- 
suckle, sun-warmed,  was  with  them.  As  they  rode  the 
dreaminess  of  the  evening  deepened;  all  sounds  came  to 
them,  softened  by  the  peace,  adding  to  the  glamour. 

Once  she  roused  with  an  effort.  She  said,  conscien- 
tiously: 

"I  hope  the  boys  have  had  a  nice  afternoon." 

He  looked  at  her,  a  smile  lurking  in  his  eyes. 

"You  needn't  be  polite,"  he  said. 

"Needn't  I?"  She  gave  a  glad  little  laugh.  "How 
nicely  you  understand!  Don't  you  want  to  talk,  either? 
You  don't  mind  if  I  don't  ?" 

"I  don't  mind  anything,  so  long  as  you're  there,"  he 
said. 

They  rode  on;  they  passed  carts  piled  high  with  hay, 
the  scent  of  it  beautiful;  sometimes  brown-faced  children 
were  perched  on  top  of  it.  The  children  laughed  shyly  at 
them;  the  men  bade  them  good-night.  There  seemed  a 
great  fellowship  of  peace  between  all  the  world  that  evening. 

Audrey  found  herself  translating  the  indignant  quacks 
of  ducks,  disturbed  as  they  rode  through  their  shallow 
pond,  into  amiable  greetings.  When  fowls  fled  noisily 
from  their  path  she  sighed  happily,  thinking,  softened,  of 
the  afternoon  and  Euphemia. 

155 


She  said: 

"The  strawberries  were  very  nice,"  and  laughed. 

"I've  never  tasted  any  like  them,"  he  declared. 

They  passed  a  field  where  men  were  loading  a  hay-cart. 
They  stood,  high  on  the  hay,  clear  against  the  sky.  The 
horses,  beautiful  great  beasts,  were  rubbing  noses.  The 
men's  voices  broke  now  and  then  on  the  stillness. 

She  turned  to  him;  she  moved  her  whip,  indicating  the 
surrounding  country. 

"You  have  travelled.  Have  you  ever  found  anything 
so  beautiful  ?" 

He  replied,  earnestly:  "No,  never." 

They  came  upon  the  Abbey;  a  ruin  now — piles  of  old 
gray  stone  among  bracken  and  heather;  here  and  there 
a  wall  still  stood,  slowly  crumbling,  with  grass  and  weeds 
growing  in  its  crevices,  and  moss  adding  to  its  desolate 
beauty.  In  one  wall  there  was  a  long,  narrow  gap  where 
once  there  had  been  a  window;  now  grasses  waved  high  in 
the  frame.  The  shadows  of  evening  lay  about  the  ruins, 
deepening  the  sadness  of  them,  giving  a  poignancy  to 
their  beauty.  Beyond  the  ruins,  to  the  left,  the  sun  shone 
athwart  a  pond,  but  the  Abbey  stood  in  shadows,  tall 
poplars  standing  out,  behind  it,  black  against  the  piercing 
radiance  of  the  evening  sky.  The  stillness  of  its  peace  was 
almost  terrifying:  Audrey,  her  breath  catching  in  her 
throat,  leaned  a  little  towards  Martin.  She  was  so  happy 
herself,  so  beautifully  alive  that  night,  that  the  thought  of 
things  and  people  long  dead — dead  with  all  the  happiness 
and  sorrow  that  had  been  theirs,  was  almost  unbearable. 
She  peopled  the  empty  window  with  faces  turned  wist- 
fully to  the  setting  sun,  pale  faces,  sweet  with  renunci- 
ation. 

156 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

She  said,  softly,  attuned  to  uttermost  love  of  life  just 
then: 

"Oh,  how  wonderful  one  must  be  to  be  a  nun!" 

"I  never  can  understand  it,"  he  said,  frankly. 

She  was  overpowered  sensitively  with  a  sense  of  her  own 
worldliness. 

"I  wish  I  were  good  enough  to  be  one,"  she  said,  wist- 
fully, the  beauty  and  the  sadness  working  upon  her. 

He  frowned. 

"Why?  You  can  be  just  as  good  out  in  the  world.  It's 
sentimentalism  to  think  that  only  nuns  are  wonderful. 
We'd  better  hurry  back." 

His  tone  of  healthy  impatience  dispersed  a  little  her 
transient  sad  desires.  The  long  canter  on  the  grass  that 
followed  further  dispersed  them.  She  said,  thoughtfully, 
when  they  dropped  into  a  walk: 

"It  doesn't  seem  possible  that  one  can  be  meant  to 
renounce  all  this." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  anything  so  sensible.  I  was 
afraid  you'd  be  turning  Roman  Catholic  and  entering  a 
convent." 

"You  sound  quite  cross,"  she  said. 

"It's  very  rude  of  me.  I  suppose  I'm  nothing  but  a 
great  healthy  animal,  and  that's  why  that  sort  of  thing 
strikes  me  as  a  bit  sickly." 

"I  don't  think  you — you're  a  bit  like  that,"  she  said, 
with  shy  kindness. 

He  smiled  at  her. 

"You  make  me  feel  that  I  am,"  he  said. 

"I?     Oh,  why?" 

He  looked  into  her  surprised  eyes. 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  saint  about  you — spirit — that 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

sort  of  thing — delicacy;  and  sometimes  I  feel,  beside  you, 
that  I'm  rather  a  blundering  sort  of  animal.  That's  what 
I  meant,  only  I  don't  express  it  very  well." 

She  was  very  serious;  she  said,  earnestly: 

"You  read  me  quite  wrongly.  I  expect  what  you  mean 
is  that  I  am  not  bright  and  sparkling  like  girls  who  have 
known  heaps  of  people,  and  been  about  a  great  deal. 
What  you  call  saintliness  is  a  sort  of  stupidity  when  I 
can't  catch  on  to  what  people  mean." 

He  gave  a  sudden  shout  of  laughter,  then  begged  her 
pardon. 

"Only,  it  was  so  delicious,"  he  said.  "I  certainly  don't 
mean  that.  Oh,  Audrey,  sometimes  you  don't  seem  a  day 
older  than  you  were  when  I  helped  you  with  your  spelling. 
'I'm  very  stupid.'  Do  you  remember  how  you  assured 
me  of  that  ?" 

"Well,  I  was,"  she  said,  suddenly  shy. 

"I  thought  your  wisdom  was  a  good  deal  bigger  than 
you  were." 

"Oh,  there's  a  rabbit!     His  dear  little  white  tail!" 

The  sun  was  setting  in  a  haze  of  soft  color,  pale,  gentle 
pink,  with  gleams  of  gold  among  it.  Trees  stood  out 
dark  against  the  sky;  a  cow,  standing  on  a  hillock,  looked 
as  if  carved  in  bronze.  The  pink  spread  till  all  the  world 
was  pink.  They  walked  their  horses,  looking  at  the  sun- 
set; they  caught  the  sound  of  tiny  rustlings  in  the  hedges. 

They  spoke  very  little  on  their  way  back  to  the  Hall. 

When  Martin  helped  her  to  dismount,  he  held  her  hand 
a  moment. 

"Have  you  enjoyed  it  ?"  he  said. 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his.     She  said,  simply: 

"I  have  loved  it." 

I58 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Then  her  eyes  fell. 

"Have  you  ?"  she  asked,  gathering  up  her  skirt. 

"In  all  my  life,"  he  said,  quietly,  "I  have  never  enjoyed 
anything  so  much." 

She  cast  a  quick  glance  at  his  face. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  suddenly,  running  from  him  towards 
the  house,  "I  shall  be  late  for  dinner!" 

He  stood  looking  after  her.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
brown  horse. 

"Dear  old  boy,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER   XX 

AUDREY  practised  dancing  with  the  boys  and  Martin, 
sometimes  in  the  ball-room,  sometimes  in  the  gym- 
nasium-hall. Their  governess,  Miss  Fenwick,  was  away 
on  sick-leave  during  Audrey's  stay  at  the  Hall,  so  the 
music  which  Marcia  liked  them  to  have  during  some  of 
their  gymnastic  exercises  was  contributed  by  herself  or 
Martin.  Audrey  loved  to  watch  them  in  that  great  empty 
room  with  its  polished  floor;  its  bars  and  ropes;  its  bat- 
tledores and  shuttlecocks,  balls,  skipping-ropes,  hoops. 
The  children  were  so  beautifully  supple  and  graceful, 
they  looked  so  charming  in  their  jerseys  and  knicker- 
bockers. 

Bobbie  invariably  afforded  her  great  amusement:  the 
strenuous  efforts  of  her  little  fat  body  to  curve  and  bend 
itself  as  her  sisters  curved  and  bent  were  very  funny. 
The  intense  earnestness  of  her  face  was  funny,  too.  But 
Audrey  loved  her  best  when,  suddenly  tiring,  as  babies  do, 
she  would  trot  pathetically  into  her  arms,  and  fall  asleep 
almost  immediately. 

Games  were  played  there,  too. 

Marcia,  coming  in  search  of  Audrey,  found  her  there 
playing  blindman's  -  buff.  Audrey  wore  a  short  gray 
serge  skirt  and  a  white  blouse.  Above  the  stiff  collar  her 
face  glowed,  very  small  and  soft  and  young,  and  vividly 
happy.  Marcia  smiled,  then  sighed. 

1 60 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

With  a  shout  Martin,  who  was  blindfolded,  caught 
Bobbie,  and  swung  her  high  above  his  head. 

"Who  am  Bob?"  she  shrilled,  excitedly.     "Guess!" 

"Can  it  be — Marcia  ?"  guessed  Martin.  "No?  Let 
me  see — Jimmy,  is  it  ?  No  ?  Why,  I  do  believe  it's  old 
Bob!" 

Ecstatic  arms  round  his  neck;  a  joyous  coo:  "Yes,  ole 
Bob!  Dear  ole  sweet  Martin — " 

They  blindfolded  her:  she  trotted  recklessly  about  the 
room,  then  her  lips  parted  in  a  joyful  smile — down  she 
sat — 

"  All  in   the  dark  alone 
I  wander  'neath  the  stars, 
Angels  look  down   upon   me 
Through   the  golden  gate's  b'ight  bars" 

In  the  midst  of  their  shaking  of  her  Marcia  approached 
Audrey.  "Dear,  your  mother  has  sent  word  that  Amelia 
is  quite  well.  She  wishes  you  to  go  home  to-morrow." 

"Yes,"  Audrey  said. 

Her  eyes  met  Martin's  suddenly.  The  blank  disappoint- 
ment in  his  face  made  her  feel  queer  somehow,  and  as  if, 
at  any  cost,  she  must  get  away  from  him. 

Marcia  followed  her  from  the  room. 

"Mrs.  Pat — Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  is  coming  down  for  the 
week-end,"  she  said.  "That  will  make  six.  Don't  you 
think  your  mother  would  let  you  stay  till  Monday,  child  ?" 

Audrey  had  paused  beside  a  window  in  the  corridor; 
it  was  set  deep  in  the  thick  walls,  with  a  wide  cushioned 
window-seat.  It  was  a  favorite  spot  of  hers;  from  it 
there  stretched  miles  and  miles  of  sweet  English  country, 
away  to  where  in  the  south  the  grave  old  hills  stood  senti- 

161 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

nel,  mysterious  in  their  soft  blue  mist,  holding  wondrous 
stories  in  their  beautiful  haze — stories  of  the  little  hill  folk 
with  which  all  the  Barrington  children  were  familiar,  and 
which  had  never  been  told  to  Audrey  in  her  childhood. 

She  turned  restlessly  away  from  the  window:  she  wished 
she  had  not  paused  there — it  made  her  way  more  difficult. 

"I  would  rather  go  home,"  she  said. 

Two  days  sooner.  That  was  all.  She  said  it  to  herself, 
bewilderedly.  Only  two  little  days.  Why  did  it  seem  such 
a  tragedy  ?  Only  two  days.  This  time  next  week  she 
would  have  been  home  for  four  days,  even  if  she  stayed 
till  Monday.  .  .  .  Why  was  it  so  terribly  hard  to  give  up 
those  two  little  days  ?  Her  mother  was  all  alone,  save  for 
Amelia  .  .  .  and  she  had  been  so  good  to  let  her  stay  .  .  . 
had  she  always  been  as  selfish  as  she  was  now,  so  horribly 
unwilling  to  give  up  just  a  few  hours  of  pleasure  ? 

"You  would  like  Ferney  Harrison,"  Marcia  said,  re- 
gretfully. "He  is  such  a  dear,  funny  boy,  and  I  wanted 
you  to  meet  Sybil  Faircourt — " 

"I  would  rather  go  home,"  Audrey  said,  in  a  gentle  little 
mechanical  way.. 

"Very  well,  dear.  Mrs.  Pat — every  one  calls  her  that — 
will  be  here  to  luncheon,  I  expect;  the  others  will  come  to- 
morrow evening." 

The  window  possessed  a  fascination  for  Audrey:  she 
moved  back  to  it,  as  Marcia  went  on  down  the  corridor. 

A  storm  was  brewing  over  the  distant  hills;  big,  dark 
clouds  hung  low,  brooding  in  the  still  air;  nearer,  the 
clouds  were  white,  huge  massed  white — great,  glorious 
shapes  against  the  clear  bright  blue  of  the  sky. 

Audrey  sat  and  watched  the  dark  clouds  grow  slowly 
violet — first  their  edges,  then  the  gray  was  streaked  every- 

162 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

where  with  the  violet — the  heavy  awesome  violet  of  the 
brewing  storm.  A  little  breeze  stirred  the  line  of  tall  pines 
that  stood  out  black  against  the  sky. 

She  was  trying  to  understand.  And  yet  she  hardly  knew 
what  it  was  that  she  wished  to  understand. 

The  pine-trees  were  bending  now;  the  wind  was  rising; 
there  was  an  angry  inner  glow  to  the  gray  and  violet  of 
the  massed  clouds — a  glow  of  copper.  The  hills  were 
shrinking  back  behind  a  mist.  .  .  .  How  she  loved  those 
dear  hills.  .  .  .  But  why  did  she  feel  those  awful  depths  of 
wretchedness  ?  She  had  been  so  happy  just  now  playing 
blindman's-buff.  . . .  "Of  course  I  am  sorry  to  leave  here, 
because  every  one  is  so  kind  to  me,"  she  told  herself  a 
good  many  times,  but  the  reflection  brought  no  comfort- 
ing every-day  matter -of- factness  with  it:  tragedy  still 
hovered. 

She  heard  a  step  coming  along  the  corridor.  Martin 
drew  near,  and  stood  looking  down  on  her. 

"So  you  are  going?"  he  said. 

She  nodded.  Quite  suddenly  she  wanted  to  cry,  and  the 
shame  of  it  made  her  hot  all  over. 

He  sat  down  near  her,  and  stared  out  of  the  window. 

"There's  going  to  be  a  storm,"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

The  peculiar,  piercingly  clear,  yet  gray  light  of  the  skies 
shone  on  her  grave  young  face.  He  looked  at  her  for  a  long 
while  in  silence. 

Then  he  spoke: 

"Can't  you  stay — just  a  little  longer?" 

Something  seemed  to  quiver  within  her;  her  heart  beat 
with  sudden  stormy  quickness,  and  at  that  moment  she 
was  throbbingly  aware  of  a  new  and  strange  weakness. 

163 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

She  knew  that  if  he  were  to  ask  her  to  stay  she  would  beg 
her  mother's  permission. 

Her  conscience,  her  will,  fought  the  knowledge.  They 
found  utterance  in  an  almost  whispered: 

"I  want  to  go  home  to-day.  I  ought  to  go.  Don't  ask 
me " 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  gently. 

They  sat  in  silence;  the  storm-clouds  drifted  nearer;  the 
hills  were  swallowed  up  in  the  gray  mist. 

"You'll  come  back  for  the  ball,"  he  said. 

The  tension  snapped.  She  gave  a  little  laugh.  She  cried 
out: 

"Why,  I  had  forgotten  it!" 

"Had  you?" 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully:  it  was  not  strange  to  him 
that  she  should  have  forgotten  it — the  girls  he  was  used  to 
meeting  no  doubt  forgot  this  ball  and  that,  among  the 
multitude  of  dances  to  which  they  went  as  a  matter  of 
course.  But  that  she  should  have  forgotten!  She!  Who 
had  never  been  to  a  dance  in  her  life!  What  had  come  to 
her? 

"Suppose  my  mother  won't  let  me  come?"  she  said, 
with  childish  fear  in  her  voice,  but  smiling  at  the  same 
time.  That  her  mother  could  really  refuse  she  never  con- 
templated. Austere  as  she  had  always  known  her,  she 
could  not  think  that  a  thing  so  harmless,  so  dear  to  her 
heart,  could  be  denied  her.  Heavy  drops  of  rain  splashed 
onto  the  panes;  in  another  minute  the  pines  were  blotted 
out.  The  world  held  nothing  but  that  steady  slanting  rain. 

"It  will  do  the  country  good,"  Martin  said,  absent- 
mindedly.  Then — "It's  because  you're  going,"  he  said. 

She  laughed. 

164 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"How  poetical!"  She  looked  up  at  him  mischievously. 
"Add  something  pretty  about  how  it  rained  when  you 
had  to  leave  that  little  girl  years  ago!  Didn't  you  think 
of  her  in  her  little  dark-blue  mackintosh  ?" 

"If  I  say  I  did,  you'll  say  she  never  wore  a  mackintosh," 
he  rejoined,  loving  her  mocking  face. 

She  rose. 

"I  did,  but  it  was  ginger-colored — an  old  one  of  my 
mother's,  cut  down.  Good-bye." 

"Don't  go!     Where  are  you  going?" 

She  held  out  her  hands. 

"To  wash  these,  for  lunch." 

There  came  the  sounds  of  an  arrival  from  the  hall  be- 
neath; a  voice — it  was  a  peculiar  voice,  high  and  very 
slow — spoke  plaintively — • 

"My  dear  Marcia,  what  a  welcome!  I  know  hospitality 
is  hopelessly  out  of  date,  and  of  course  I  invited  myself 
down,  but  to  greet  me  with  a  deluge!  My  transformation 
is  soaked  through." 

Audrey  was  peeping,  twisting  her  neck  to  see  the 
visitor. 

"It's  Mrs.  Pat,"  observed  Martin,  gloomily. 

"Isn't  she  ashamed  of  having  to  wear  false  hair?"  she 
exclaimed,  wide-eyed. 

He  smiled. 

"Oh,  that's  a  pose!  She  has  splendid  hair.  They  all 
talk  like  that." 

"How  funny!  Her  hair  is  my  color,"  peeping,  "only 
redder  a  little,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Something  like  it,"  he  conceded  in  an  unwilling  sort 
of  way. 

"But  she  has  light  eyes — oh,  she  flashed  them  right  up 
165 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

here,"  drawing  back  hastily.  "She  is  very  pretty,  isn't 
she  ?" 

"People  say  so." 

"Don't  you  think  so?" 

"M — yes,  in  a  way,  I  suppose  she  is." 

"How  tall  she  is,"  she  sighed.  "And  what  yards  and 
yards  of  coat  and  frock!" 

Jimmy  and  Tommy  appeared,  arms  around  each  other. 

"Mrs.  Pat  ?  Oh,  bother,"  observed  Jimmy.  "I  won't 
speak  a  word  all  through  lunch." 

"Why  not  ?"  Audrey  asked. 

"Because  she  always  says  to  dad:  'How  delightful!  I 
love  to  draw  children  out!'  I  don't  like  being  drawn  out." 

"Neither  do  I,"  chimed  in  Tommy. 

"And  it  isn't  fair  when  you  have  to  be  so  polite  to  people 
because  they're  in  your  house." 

"Grown-ups,"  ruminated  Jimmy,  pessimistically,  "are 
awful  rotters,  as  a  rule.  No  one  decent  is  coming  this 
week  'cept  Ferney  and  Miss  Faircourt.  That  old  Wether- 
by's  coming,  Tommy!" 

"  I  do  really  b'lieve  I'll  burst  being  polite  to  him,"  Tommy 
opined,  mournfully. 

Jimmy  turned  to  Audrey. 

"He  takes  you  on  his  knee,  and  he  says,  'Well,  little 
girl,'  and  he  takes  hold  of  your  hand,  and  says,  'This  little 
pig  went  to  market;  this  one  stayed  at  home —  He  does 
really.  To  me!" 

"Miss  Gwendoline,  come  and  have  your  hands  washed!" 

They  went,  still  entwined. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SUSAN  moved  about  the  house  with  an  odd  restless- 
ness. She  had  risen  even  earlier  than  usual,  and  had 
gone,  directly  she  was  dressed,  into  Audrey's  little  bed- 
room. She  had  stood  there  looking  round,  a  new  appre- 
hension rendering  her  imagination  more  vivid  than  usual. 
She  saw,  standing  there,  a  large  handsome  room — she 
saw  dainty  lace  curtains  to  the  big  windows — beautiful 
chairs — bed — wardrobe.  .  .  .  Her  puckered  little  face  seem- 
ed to  pucker  into  closer  lines  as  she  looked  about  Audrey's 
room;  at  the  narrow  little  childish  bed  where  Audrey  had 
slept  from  babyhood;  at  the  plain  homely  furniture;  at  the 
row  of  hooks  behind  the  cretonne  curtain  that  served  for 
wardrobe;  at  the  wall-paper  where  the  little  bunches  of 
red  rosebuds  had  faded  into  pink.  She  looked  at  the  two 
little  latticed  windows  set  deep  in  the  wall;  it  had  never 
struck  her  that  they  needed  curtains.  .  .  .  The  room  was 
sweet  and  fresh  and  pathetically  young.  .  .  .  There  were 
none  of  the  knick-knacks  dear  to  the  hearts  of  young  girls; 
no  pretty  frivolities;  it  was  almost  austerely  neat.  Only 
on  the  mantel-shelf  there  were  photographs  of  Marcia  and 
Dick  and  "the  boys." 

Susan  went  close  and  studied  them  with  a  queerly 
fierce  intensity.  Then  she  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  over  the  country.  The  view  from  Audrey's  window  was 
a  very  beautiful  one;  it  looked  to  the  hills,  and  before  the 

167 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

hills  to  the  miles  and  miles  of  fields,  with  the  flash  of  the 
river  as  it  wound  in  and  out  losing  itself  in  Brierly  Wood, 
whose  great  trees  stood  up  always  clear  against  the  misty 
blues  and  purples  and  grays  of  the  hills. 

Many  years  ago  Susan,  with  the  inconsistency  born  of 
the  warring  of  her  mother-nature,  with  her  inherited 
austerity,  had  chosen  that  room  for  her  baby,  because  of 
the  beautiful  view  from  the  windows. 

She  turned  away  now  and  went  swiftly  to  her  own  room. 
At  the  foot  of  the  bed  there  stood  a  large  old-fashioned 
trunk.  She  selected  a  key  from  the  bunch  hanging  at  her 
waist  and  unlocked  it.  It  was  packed  full  of  clothes.  She 
rummaged  among  them  till  she  found  an  old  muslin  frock, 
which  she  took  out.  It  was  the  frock  in  which  she  had 
been  married  one  day  in  June  twenty-one  years  ago.  For 
a  minute  her  thoughts  leaped  back  to  that  day,  to  the  little 
quiet  gray  church.  She  saw  again  the  hollow  worn  in  the 
third  step  of  the  flight  that  led  up  to  the  porch,  the  hollow 
that  had  caused  her  to  stumble,  so  that  her  old  father  had 
uttered  a  shocked  "Hush!" 

She  saw  the  tall  form  of  John  Fielding  waiting  in  the  dim 
interior  of  the  little  church;  she  saw  his  narrow  shoulders 
bent  in  prayer  as  he  knelt  beside  her.  She  had  seen  him 
like  that  many  times  afterwards,  for  he  was  a  devout  man. 
She  saw  it  all  in  one  minute's  thought,  but  her  face  did  not 
soften;  it  remained  merely  contemplative. 

Then  she  rose  and  carried  the  gown  down-stairs. 

She  was  a  quick  worker.  In  two  hours'  time  short  cur- 
tains fluttered  at  Audrey's  windows — dainty  little  white 
muslin  curtains  with  knots  of  pink  roses.  They  gave  a 
new  air  of  girlish  charm  to  the  bare  little  room. 

Susan  ate  no  breakfast.  Amelia  noticed  the  rasher  of 
168 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

bacon  left  on  her  plate,  and  ate  it  up  herself.     Amelia  was 
one  of  those  people  who  dearly  love  "bits  in  between." 

After  breakfast  Susan  went  up  to  her  room  and  made 
her  bed,  but  her  movements  were  not  the  same  as  usual; 
the  brisk  regularity  that  always  characterized  her  actions 
had  given  place  to  a  certain  jerkiness,  an  uneven  haste. 
As  she  went  about  her  duties  a  dull  little  flush  grew  on 
either  cheek;  her  doggy  eyes  were  very  bright;  they 
turned  every  few  minutes  to  the  clock  on  the  mantel- 
shelf. As  the  hours  dragged  on  the  accumulated  jealousy 
and  longing  of  those  days  without  Audrey  rose  to  a  pitch 
that  became  agony.  She  began  to  picture  tragedies:  noth- 
ing was  too  wild  for  her  just  then.  Audrey  had  refused 
to  return  to  her  bare  home — to  her  homely,  unattractive 
mother.  Marcia  had  taken  her  away — abroad. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  stood  staring  out  blankly: 
she  saw  nothing  of  the  landscape,  but  the  peace  of  it 
told  upon  her  insensibly,  and  she  realized  with  a  shock  her 
nervous  hysteria.  She  turned  away,  snapping  her  lips 
together  with  dogged  determination,  and  began  to  dust 
the  room. 

The  morbid  fancies  she  kept  at  bay  by  her  strength  of 
will,  but  she  could  not  prevent  herself  from  listening  to 
every  tiniest  sound,  though  she  knew  that  Audrey  was 
not  to  come  home  for  two  hours  yet.  Presently  she  heard 
a  movement  in  Audrey's  room;  she  stood  listening,  the 
blood  surging  up  to  her  lined  forehead,  but  the  movement 
was  clumsy,  and  she  knew  that  it  was  Amelia  in  there. 
An  angry  light  gleamed  suddenly  in  her  eyes;  it  trans- 
formed her  face,  so  that,  as  she  sprang  forward  to  the 
door,  she  looked  like  some  wild  animal.  .  .  . 

"What  are  you  doing  in  here  ?" 
169 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Amelia  turned  with  a  start;  a  jug  she  held  in  her  hand 
fell  to  the  floor  and  broke. 

"Lord  save  us!"  mumbled  Amelia,  her  hand  to  her 
side. 

Susan  waited,  eying  her. 

"I — I  was  only  putting  a  few  flowers — "  Amelia  said, 
sullenly. 

Susan's  eyes  went  to  the  little  jar  holding  a  bunch  of 
honeysuckle;  the  flowers  were  crammed  in  with  a  horrible 
lack  of  taste;  but  Susan  did  not  see  that,  she  only  saw  an 
effort  to  oust  her  from  the  place  due  to  her  as  Audrey's 
mother — an  attempt  to  win  the  child  from  her.  Her  face 
worked;  then  she  said,  quietly: 

"You  know  I  do  not  approve  of  flowers  in  a  room. 
They  are  not  healthy.  Take  them  away." 

She  waited  while  Amelia  picked  up  the  pieces  of  the 
broken  jug,  and,  taking  up  the  jar  of  flowers,  left  the  room. 
Then  alone,  Susan  moved  aimlessly  about,  touching  things. 

She  went  back  to  her  own  room,  a  look  of  deep  worry 
lining  her  face,  locked  the  door,  and,  kneeling  down  by 
the  old-fashioned  wardrobe,  inserted  a  key  into  the  lower 
drawer  and  opened  it.  She  knelt  there,  staring  down  into 
the  drawer.  All  the  color,  the  eager  painting  of  anticipa- 
tion, had  left  her  face;  she  looked  pale  and  weary.  She 
pressed  her  hands  to  her  eyes,  the  old  tired  formula  rose 
to  her  lips: 

"I  am  right.     A  mother  always  knows." 

But  it  was  so  old,  so  stale,  that  it  carried  no  conviction: 
she  had  said  it  so  often.  .  .  . 

"All  young  things  love  flowers.  .  .  .  Why  shouldn't  she, 
just  because  I  never  did  ?" 

An  insistent  voice  spoke  in  her  ear. 
170 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Neither  did  her  father — nor  any  of  his  family — only — 
that  others — has  that  extravagant  love  for  them — 

She  put  her  hand  into  the  drawer,  then  drew  it  away 
with  a  shudder,  turned  the  key  hastily,  and  rose. 

She  went  down-stairs  carrying  some  tea-cloths  that  re- 
quired hemming.  She  sat  down  quietly  and  began  her 
work. 

Amelia,  looking  in  once,  went  away  with  a  sniff  of 
superior  wisdom. 

"A  proper  mother,"  quoth  Amelia,  who  was  full  of  those 
little  bits  of  conventional  wisdom  that  are  most  unwise, 
"would  never  sit  there  working  when  her  only  daughter 
was  coming  home!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AJDREY  woke,  upon  that  last  morning  of  hers  at  the 
Hall,  with  a  queer  homesickness  strong  upon  her. 
It  was  so  unexpected  that  her  stern  young  conscience  sug- 
gested a  certain  ingratitude  to  Marcia.  She  blushed  as 
she  lay  on  her  pillows.  But  her  good  sense  came  to  her 
aid:  she  was  as  grateful  as  ever  to  Marcia,  but  she  wanted 
her  mother. 

Last  night  Martin  had  said  "Good-night.".  .  . 

Dreaming,  her  heart  began  to  beat  stormily.  Yes,  she 
wanted  to  go  home.  .  .  . 

And  Mrs.  Pat  stared  so — 

She  wanted  her  mother.  .  .  . 

And  the  bare  little  house — she  wanted  her  own  little 
bedroom.  She  wished  she  could  go  now — at  once — before 
breakfast.  .  .  . 

Yet  she  had  been  very  happy  here — she  was  so  happy 
now.  .  .  . 

But  she  wanted  to  go  home. 

Unused  to  self-analysis,  she  was  pathetically  at  a  loss 
now.  Half-formed  thoughts  and  feelings  were  instinctively 
choked  back;  dreams  were  wrapped  in  a  sensitive  haze 
that  hid  their  real  meaning,  or  only  half  revealed  it.  Her 
nature,  essentially  shy,  and  young  even  for  her  years,  made 
her  shrink  from  this  great  new  thing  that  was  invading  her 
life,  even  while  it  gave  a  new  beauty  to  everything,  even 

172 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

while  it  made  her  heart  beat  at  times  with  a  happiness  that 
was  almost  suffocating. 

Yesterday  a  tragic  despair  had  held  her  at  the  thought 
of  leaving  the  Hall.  To-day  she  was  eager  to  go.  To-day 
she  wanted  to  get  away — to  her  mother  and  the  little  gray 
house  on  the  hill.  And  she  did  not  understand.  .  .  . 

Nor  did  she  understand  what  it  was  that  made  her 
afraid  as  she  went  down  to  breakfast— that  sent  her  back 
once  to  her  room  in  a  veritable  panic  of  fear. 

"It's  Mrs.  Pat."     She  tried  to  explain  it  to  herself. 

Then  she  went  down. 

She  entered  the  sunny  morning-room  walking  a  little 
stiffly,  and  with  a  very  serious  face.  She  was  relieved  to 
find  that  Mrs.  Pat  was  not  down;  but  the  fresh  access  of 
shyness  that  had  seized  upon  her  made  her  grave  and 
unresponsive;  it  made  her  ignore  Martin  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. She  talked  to  Marcia  and  Dick.  Dick  was  so  big 
and  comfortable;  she  felt  a  great  affection  for  Dick  that 
morning. 

Marcia  glanced  two  or  three  times  at  Martin :  his  boyish 
face  was  grave;  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  older.  She 
grew  uneasy.  She  began  to  think  of  Martin's  tyrannical 
old  father,  with  his  pride  of  race,  his  obstinacy,  and  his 
deep  love  for  his  only  son.  Audrey's  youthfulness  had 
hitherto  somewhat  blinded  her;  she  had  looked  upon  her 
and  Martin  almost  as  two  children,  Martin  being,  in  his 
way,  as  young  for  his  age  as  Audrey  was  for  hers.  Al- 
most, Audrey  had  seemed  like  Jimmy's  sister,  a  sister  only 
a  few  years  older,  and  Martin  standing  in  much  the  same 
relationship  to  her  as  he  did  to  the  boys.  But  now  she 
began  to  wonder  had  she  been  wrong.  She  thought  of 
Susan — then,  looking  at  Audrey,  felt  that  she  had  been 

P.73 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

guilty  of  snobbishness.  The  name  Fielding,  at  any  rate, 
was  an  old  and  good  one,  and  Audrey  herself .  .  .  Marcia 
fell  a-dreaming  over  an  old  man — a  somewhat  lonely  old 
man  he  was — and  Audrey.  Would  she  help,  ever  so  little, 
to  fill  the  cruel  gap  that  his  wife's  death  had  left  in  his 
life  ?  His  wife  had  been  sweet  and  soft  and  young  and 
dignified.  Audrey,  with  all  her  childishness,  her  inexpe- 
rience, had  a  dear  little  dignity  of  her  own.  Marcia  suc- 
ceeded, with  astonishing  ease,  in  picturing  her  at  Hurston- 
leigh.  She  saw  her  in  the  beautiful  old  rooms,  celebrated 
for  the  wondrous  carving  of  their  mantel-shelves.  She 
saw  her  in  the  library,  in  the  garden.  Hurstonleigh  was  a 
very  lovely  old  place,  and  Audrey  fitted  in  there  with  a 
strange  suitability.  But  Marcia  smiled,  for,  after  all,  she 
was  giving  her  imagination  too  free  a  rein;  she  really 
knew  nothing,  and  there  might  be  no  foundation  for  her 
suspicions. 

Before  Audrey  left  the  Hall  she  received  a  message  from 
Mrs.  Pat's  maid.  Mrs.  Pat  wanted  to  say  good-bye  to 
her.  Audrey  was  surprised,  but  rather  flattered. 

She  found  Mrs.  Pat  reclining  in  a  lounge-chair;  she  rested 
against  blue  cushions  of  all  shades,  and  she  was  clad  in  an 
elaborate  green  dressing-gown.  The  effect  was  startling, 
and  distinctly  attractive. 

She  yawned  in  response  to  Audrey's  greeting;  yawned 
loudly,  and  flung  a  letter  with  childish  petulance  to  the 
floor.  "I  hope  you're  not  a  cat,"  she  observed.  "I  never 
admit  my  friends  into  my  bedroom,  but  I  think  you're 
safe." 

Audrey  did  not  understand. 

"You  look  sufficiently  innocent;  but  so  do  Persian  kit- 
tens, and  they  can  scratch." 

174 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Audrey  said,  sitting 
down. 

"  Don't  you  ?  Women  in  the  morning  in  their  bedrooms 
always  make  me  think  of  amateur  photographs:  there's  a 
ghastly  crudity,  a  lack  of  discreet  shading  about  them; 
they  haven't  been  touched  up,  you  know." 

Audrey  did  not  understand  that  all  this  was  affectation; 
that  Mrs.  Pat's  negligee  get-up  had  kept  her  maid  busy  for 
nearly  two  hours  that  morning. 

"Child,  what  would  you  do  with  bills — bills — bills?" 
Mrs.  Pat  flung  another  to  the  floor. 

"Pay  them,"  Audrey  said,  a  gleam  of  mischief  in  her 
eye. 

"Oh,  good  gracious!  Lucille,  isn't  Miss  Fielding's  hair 
a  beautiful  color  ?" 

"Oui,  Madame." 

Lucille's  little  black  eyes  stared  at  Audrey's  head. 

Audrey  felt  uncomfortable:  she  had  noticed  already  that 
the  maid  was  staring  at  her,  as  she  picked  up  a  frock  here, 
a  blouse  there,  and  put  them  away.  Mrs.  Pat  stared,  too. 
Audrey  rose. 

"I  must  go." 

"Must  you  ?  Is  that  rectory  creature  coming  this  after- 
noon ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I've  a  headache,  a  most  horrible  headache. 
Lucille,  you'll  get  out  several  of  those  new  novels.  I'm 
sick  of  this  one." 

Audrey  bent  to  read  the  title;  Mrs.  Pat  drew  it  away. 

"Marcia  would  faint  if  she  thought  I'd  let  you  read  even 
the  title,"  she  said,  a  sneering  reflection  in  her  voice. 
"Marcia  is  a  most  astonishing  prude." 

"75 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Oh  no!"  Audrey  cried,  indignantly. 

"Are  you  a  devotee,  too  ?  Don't  let  her  influence  you  too 
much,  child;  you  can  never  be  a  prig  with  that  hair!" 

"But— she  isn't—" 

"Oh,  I  know!  She's  altogether  beautiful.  I  was  only 
joking.  It  was  the  thought  of  Mrs.  Delaunay  that  upset 
me.  A  woman  has  no  right  to  go  through  the  world  like  a 
hearse.  She  gives  me  the  mollygrumps.  Don't  go  for  a 
minute." 

Audrey  stood  uncertain;  she  was  aware  that  behind  her 
Lucille  was  watching  her;  it  made  her  nervous. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said,  hurriedly.     "Good-bye." 

Mrs.  Pat's  eyes  looked  over  her  head  for  a  moment,  then 
she  smiled  cooingly. 

"Are  you  cross  with  me,  child  ?  I  was  only  joking,  you 
know.  I  am  very  fond  of  Marcia.  She  is  so  beautiful 
that  she  makes  me  jealous.  I  have  always  wanted  to  be 
beautiful." 

Audrey  was  fascinated;  the  sudden  simplicity  bewildered 
her.  It  was  so  out  of  keeping  with  the  brilliant  Mrs. 
Pat  of  the  evening  before;  the  Mrs.  Pat  who  had  kept  them 
all  laughing;  who  had  said  such  queer,  bitter,  witty  things. 

"You  are  beautiful,"  she  said,  impulsively. 

A  gratified  gleam  shone  in  Mrs.  Pat's  light  eyes;  her 
vanity  was  so  intense  that  even  a  tribute  from  an  insignifi- 
cant little  girl  was  welcomed  by  her.  Moreover,  she  was  not 
beautiful;  her  clever  make-up  and  a  certain  fascination 
deceived  people  occasionally  into  believing,  for  a  brief 
moment,  that  she  was  beautiful;  but  she  was  not,  and,  be- 
neath all  her  uneasy  vanity,  she  knew  it. 

Also  she  was  intensely  bored.  She  always  was  intensely 
bored  at  the  Hall;  she  never  invited  herself  there  except 

176 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

when  too  horribly  pressed  for  money,  or  when  there  was 
some  undesirable  story  afloat  about  her.  "I  go  to  the 
Hall  for  my  moral  Turkish  baths,"  she  had  told  a  man 
once.  "Women  are  such  cats — they  make  it  necessary 
sometimes." 

She  and  Marcia  had  been  to  the  same  school.  She  had 
been  a  big  girl  on  the  eve  of  leaving  when  Marcia  had 
come,  very  young  and  spoiled,  to  the  school,  and  she  had 
shown  a  certain  careless  good-nature  to  the  child,  whose 
adoring  admiration  she  found  amusing. 

Their  mothers  had  loved  each  other.  For  such  mem- 
ories Marcia  still  welcomed  her  to  the  Hall,  though  they 
had  nothing  in  common,  and  many  things  about  Mrs.  Pat 
were  distasteful  to  her.  But  she  knew  that  beyond  incor- 
rigible extravagance,  and  a  reckless  tongue  that  made  ene- 
mies, there  was  no  real  harm  about  her  old  school-fellow. 

Now  she  held  out  a  long,  delicate  hand  to  Audrey. 

"Good-bye,  little  girl;  really  you  make  me  feel  quite  a 
healthy  liking  for  bread-and-butter." 

"Good-bye." 

"But  then  it's  salt  butter,  you  see,"  Mrs.  Pat  called 
after  her. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  her,  Audrey  heard  her  say: 

"You're  sure?  The  exact  shade?"  and  Lucille's  re- 
sponse: 

"Oui,  Madame." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MARTIN  drove  Audrey  home. 
Susan  was  waiting  in  the  little  old-fashioned  porch: 
she  did  not  come  down  to  the  gate.  But  Audrey,  at  sight 
of  her,  felt  a  sudden  warm  rush  of  love  that  for  the  mo- 
ment drove  out  all  memory  of  her  mother's  disapproval  of 
excessive  tokens  of  affection.  She  felt  very  young  and 
helpless,  and  glad  to  be  back  again.  She  sprang  from  the 
dog-cart  and  ran  up  the  path.  "Mother!" 

There  was  no  doubting  her:  even  Susan's  jealous  sus- 
picions were  laid  at  rest.  Her  stiff  little  figure  relaxed; 
she  felt  suddenly  very  tired,  but  very  happy. 

"Mother,  this  is  Mr.  Jocelyn." 

Audrey,  shy-eyed,  smiling,  spoke  with  her  arm  still 
around  her  mother.  She  felt  so  safe  now — so  brave,  so 
able  to  meet  his  eyes,  to  smile  at  him! 

Susan  spoke  stiffly: 

"Will  you  come  in  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  ?" 

It  cost  her  a  great  deal  to  say  it,  since  the  thought  of  a 
stranger  there  with  her  and  Audrey  was  painfully  repug- 
nant to  her,  but  she  had  her  own  queer  standards  of 
hospitality.  Martin  made  some  excuse  about  his  horse, 
and  so  won  a  certain  measure  of  approval  from  her.  She 
thought  he  showed  nice  feeling  in  refusing  to  make  a  third. 
But  Martin  was  not  thinking  of  her.  His  face  was  un- 
usually grave;  he  did  not  smile  as  he  bade  Audrey  good- 

178 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

bye.  His  nature  was  simple  and  straightforward:  he 
could  not  understand  Audrey's  change  of  manner.  To 
him  it  could  signify  only  one  thing:  that,  since  she  had 
said  he  had  done  nothing  to  offend  her,  she  was  tired  of 
him,  she  wanted  to  get  away  from  him.  The  realization 
of  it  brought  the  world  toppling  in  a  storm  of  darkest 
woe  about  him.  He  understood  suddenly  what  she  had 
grown  to  mean  to  him.  And  he  set  his  lips  in  an  obstinate 
line  as  he  drove  away  from  the  gray  cottage. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"  1\  l\  OTHER,  I  want  to  ask  you  something." 

I  V  1  Amelia  had  left  the  room:  Audrey  and  her  mother 
were  alone.  As  she  spoke  she  played  nervously  with  her 
teaspoon. 

Susan  waited.  She  had  a  great  gift  for  silence,  and, 
without  intention  on  her  part,  there  was  always  a  grim- 
ness  about  her  waiting,  as  if  she  expected  to  hear  nothing 
that  was  good. 

Audrey's  eyes  roved  appealingly  round  the  room.  Fi- 
nally, fixing  her  gaze  on  a  patch  of  vivid  sunlight  that  lay 
across  the  butter,  she  said: 

"Mrs.  Barrington  is  giving  a  dance  on  the  twenty-first." 

Susan  said  nothing  for  a  while;  she  sat  looking  at  the 
young  face  so  full  of  anxious  hope. 

"And  you  want  to  go,  I  suppose  ?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  Mother,  yes!     May  I  ?" 

"You  really  think  you  will  find  pleasure  in  whirling 
about  in  a  hot  room  ?" 

Audrey  laughed. 

"How  you  strip  it  of  all  poetry,  Mother!  Yes,  I  think 
I  shall." 

"But  you  can't  dance." 

With  her  queer  inconsistency  her  pride  was  up  in  arms 
at  the  thought  of  her  child's  cutting  a  poor  figure  up  at  the 
Hall.  Audrey,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  blushed. 

1 80 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Yes,  I  can.     I  have  been  practising  at  the  Hall." 

Susan  noted  the  blush;  her  thoughts  flew  fiercely  to 
Martin;  beneath  the  cloth  she  gripped  her  hands  tightly. 
But  her  voice  was  quite  calm  as  she  said: 

"We  could  get  your  dress  made  in  Peterhampton." 

"Oh,  Mother!  Oh,  really?  Then  I  may  go?  What 
material  will  it  be  ?  I  want  something  soft — very  soft. 
I  wonder" — reflectively — "what  Mrs.  Pat's  tea-gown  was 
made  of?  It  was  so  lovely — it  curled  about — all  soft,  but 
I  expect  she  paid  a  fabulous  price  for  it." 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Pat?" 

"That  isn't  her  real  name.  I  forget  what  it  was. 
Every  one  calls  her  Mrs.  Pat.  Mother,  when  can  we  go  ?" 

The  next  day  she  went  into  Peterhampton  with  her 
mother;  the  material  was  chosen,  and  taken  to  the  best 
dressmaker  the  town  boasted  of.  To  Audrey  this  was 
undreamed  of  magnificence;  she  had  thought  she  would 
make  the  frock  herself. 

Two  days  later  she  went  again  into  the  town  to  be 
fitted.  It  was  when  they  were  walking  home  from  the 
station  that  the  dog-cart  from  the  Hall  passed,  Dick  driv- 
ing, with  Mrs.  Pat  beside  him. 

"Didn't  she  look  handsome,  Mother?  What  a  dazzling 
blue  she  was  wearing!  No  one  else  could  wear  it,  I  think — 
Mother,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

Susan's  face  had  gone  quite  white;  she  turned  her  head 
and  looked  at  Audrey,  but  in  her  eyes  was  that  peculiarly 
frightening  expression  which  denotes  that  the  mind  is  see- 
ing some  picture  of  its  own. 

"Nothing!"  she  said,  curtly. 

"But  you  are  so  pale,  Mother!  Sha'n't  we  rest  a 
little  ?" 

181 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"No.     Don't  fidget,  child." 

They  walked  on  slowly.  In  the  west  the  gold  was 
rapidly  changing;  a  pink  light  crept  over  the  country;  it 
deepened  till  the  water  left  by  a  heavy  shower  in  the  ruts 
of  the  road  gleamed  blood  red.  Susan  shivered  violently. 

"It  was — like  that.  I  saw  it,"  she  muttered,  with  sud- 
den loss  of  self-control.  For  a  minute  she  gripped  Au- 
drey's arm  hard;  then  she  dropped  her  hand  and  walked 
on. 

"Won't  you  hold  my  arm,  Mother?" 

Audrey  spoke  timidly,  terribly  afraid. 

"No.  I  am  quite  well  now.  It  was  only  a  sudden — 
faintness." 

Audrey  walked  slowly  to  spare  her,  but  the  little  stiff 
figure,  in  its  dark-gray  coat  and  skirt,  marched  on,  so 
erect  that  there  was  a  suggestion  of  desperation  in  the 
taut  pose,  and  Audrey  was  obliged  to  quicken  her  pace. 

Presently  Susan  spoke  in  her  usual  voice. 

"Who  was  that  woman  in  the  dog-cart  ?" 

"Mrs.  Pat,  Mother." 

She  jerked  her  hand  with  a  certain  quivering  irritation. 

"What  is  her  real  name  ?" 

"I  can't  remember — quite.  Something  Dent — Hardy- 
Dent,  I  think—" 

"Hartley?" 

"Yes,  that's  it.     Do  you  know  her,  Mother  ?" 

"I  have  heard  of  her.  She  is  a —  She  stopped  ab- 
ruptly, as  if  she  were  choking  back  something  that  she 
longed  to  say. 

They  climbed  a  hill  in  silence. 

They  passed  a  cottage  where  dying  white  poppies  hung 
limp  and  draggled,  round  their  roots  little  red  pools.  .  .  . 

182 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Audrey,   her   mind    attuned    morbidly   by   her   mother's, 
thought  that  they  were  bleeding  to  death. 
She  shuddered  and  spoke  impulsively. 
"Say  something  to  me,  Mother!     Do  you  feel  better?" 
"Yes."     She  turned  her  head  and  looked  into  Audrey's 
pale  face.     "Did  you  like  her?"  she  said. 
"  Like  whom,  Mother  ?" 

"Mrs.— Hartley-Dent." 

"Oh!  Well,  I  didn't  see  much  of  her,"  she  hesitated. 
"Yes,  I  think  I  liked  her!  She—" 

Again  there  was  that  quivering  irritation,  an  almost 
unbearable  impatience,  when  Audrey  halted. 

"She  what?" 

"She  is  very  fascinating,  and  she  says  such  queer  things. 
I  can't  help  watching  her,"  Audrey  hurried  on,  eager  to 
talk,  to  interest  her  mother,  striving  to  bring  about  an 
every-day  atmosphere  once  more.  "I  felt  very  proud 
when  she  admired  my  hair.  You  see,  hers  is  the  same 
color,  only  a  little  redder  and  golder,  I  think,  and  she  says 
it's  a  very  uncommon  color — 

"I  thought  her  hair  was  brown — dark-brown."  The 
mutter  came  stiffly  from  Susan's  lips. 

"Oh  no!  Mother,  look;  this  stone  is  quite  dry.  Won't 
you  sit  down  a  little  while  ?" 

Susan  did  not  seem  to  hear  her. 

"You — feel — drawn — to  her?"  she  said,  slowly. 

"I  think  I  do.     She's  so  fascinating." 

Susan  said  no  more.  She  walked  on  with  her  usual 
firm,  quick  step. 

When  they  reached  the  house  she  turned  to  Audrey. 

"  I  am  going  to  help  Amelia  get  supper  ready." 

"Oh,  Mother,  let  me  do  it!" 
183 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Why  should  you  ?" 

In  the  darkening  hall  she  faced  Audrey,  looked  at  her, 
haggard-eyed,  defying  her  pity,  repudiating  all  idea  of 
there  being  anything  the  matter  with  her. 

"You  are  not  well,  Mother— 

"I  am  quite  well.  Amelia  needs  help."  She  added, 
with  an  unusual  air  of  recognizing  that  there  was  need  of 
explanation,  "She  is  still  not  so  strong  as  she  was  before 
her  illness." 

"  But  I  could  help  her,"  Audrey  persisted. 

"There  is  no  need  for  us  both  to  help  her."  Susan  had 
removed  her  coat  and  her  little  old-fashioned  straw  hat. 
"I  don't  wish  you  to  come,  too." 

She  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  proceeded  to  gather 
together  plates  and  dishes,  while  Amelia,  a  good  deal 
surprised,  sat  and  looked  into  the  fire.  For  a  while  there 
was  no  sound  but  the  clatter  of  a  plate  or  spoon;  then 
Susan  spoke: 

"Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  is  staying  at  the  Hall." 

"Lord  save  us!"  gasped  Amelia,  and  her  face  went 
patchy.  "Then — then — has  Audrey  met  her?" 

"Yes."  Susan  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "Why 
shouldn't  she  ?" 

Amelia  put  up  her  hand  and  fumbled  with  her  curls. 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Only — she  might  mention 
the  wreck,  and — and — you've  never  told  Audrey — 

"I  shall  tell  her  now." 

"Lord  save  us!"  gasped  Amelia  once  more. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  vulgarly  profane!"  Susan 
said,  with  sharp  irritation.  "I  have  never  mentioned  it 
to  Audrey,  because  it  is  a  subject  which  I'm  not  anxious 
to  talk  about — 

184 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"No,"  muttered  Amelia,  with  a  shiver. 

"And  she  is  very  sensitive."  Susan's  manner  was  not 
like  her  usual  one;  she  was  quite  palpably  making  excuses, 
and  it  did  not  come  naturally  to  her  to  do  it.  "I  was 
afraid  it  might  prey  on  her  mind.  But  if — this  woman — 
remembers  we  were  on  board  with  her,  she  may  mention 
it,  and  it  would  make  Audrey  uncomfortable  not  to  know 
about  it." 

"I  always  thought  it  was  a  mistake  not  to  tell 
her,"  Amelia  said,  with  an  unusual  flash  of  common- 
sense. 

"I  thought  it  better,"  Susan  replied,  curtly. 

She  left  the  kitchen  and  went  back  to  the  room  where 
Audrey  sat  idly  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"I  am  going  to  talk  to  you  about  your  father." 

Audrey  turned  a  startled  face  to  her. 

"Oh — yes,"  she  said,  breathlessly. 

"He  died,  as  you  know,  when  you  were  a  baby." 

"Yes." 

Susan  seemed  to  find  it  difficult  to  go  on;  all  the  effort 
of  her  stubborn  will  could  not  succeed  in  disguising  her 
intense  repugnance  for  the  subject. 

Audrey,  in  spite  of  her  great  wish  to  know  more  of  her 
father,  said,  gently: 

"Need  you  speak  of  him,  Mother  ?" 

"I  wish  to.  He  was  drowned.  We  were  coming  back 
from  America,  where  we  had  gone,  partly  because  a  sea- 
voyage  was  ordered  for  his  health,  and  partly  because  he 
wanted  to  visit  friends  there.  The  Victoria  went  down. 
There  was  a  terrible  storm.  She  crashed  into  a  rock. 
Twelve  people  were  drowned,  of  whom  your  father  was 
one.  The  rest  were  saved." 

185 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

She  paused,  and  again  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  at 
some  terrible  picture. 

Into  Audrey's  quick  mind  came  the  memory  of  that 
mutter  as  she  had  stared  with  terror-filled  eyes  at  the  rain 
gleaming  red  in  the  ruts  of  the  road. 

Audrey  saw  pictures,  too,  now.  .  .  . 

"A  man  was  hurt  in  the  rush — and  a  woman,  too — there 
was  blood  in  the  sea — "  Susan  spoke  in  a  dream  voice, 
as  if  she  hardly  knew  that  she  was  saying  her  thoughts 
aloud. 

Audrey  went  up  close  and  timidly  put  her  arms  about 
her. 

"Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  was  on  board,  too,"  Susan  said, 
sitting  stiff  beneath  her  embrace. 

"Oh,  Mother!"  There  was  understanding  and  remorse 
in  her  voice.  "Oh,  poor,  poor  Mother!  Now  I  under- 
stand .  .  .  dear,  it  was  good  of  you  to  tell  me!  Oh,  how 
brave  and  good  you  always  are!  .  .  ." 

Eager  young  admiration  shone  in  the  eyes  that  looked  up 
at  Susan.  Audrey  rubbed  her  cheek  against  her  mother's 
hand.  Susan  drew  it  away  with  a  sudden  sharp  gesture, 
as  if  something  had  hurt  her  badly. 

She  rose  hurriedly. 

"Don't!"  she  said,  harshly. 

She  went  across  to  the  mantel-shelf  and  put  a  vase 
straight. 

"I  think  that's  all,"  she  said.  "Amelia  was  with  us, 
too.  She  was  coming  to  England  to  marry  a  man  she  had 
met  in  New  York.  She  found  him  already  married. 
Then  she  came  here." 

"Was  she  my  nurse  ?"  Audrey  asked. 

"No." 

186 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Susan  stood  a  minute  silent;  then: 

"Your  nurse  saved  you.  The  shock  killed  her;  she 
died  a  week  later." 

Audrey  stood  by  the  table  rebuffed.  The  tears  crept  to 
her  eyes,  but  she  blinked  them  back  with  mixed  feelings: 
pride,  and  a  longing  to  do  what  her  mother  would  like  best. 

"It — it  must  have  been — terrible,"  she  said,  struggling 
for  some  more  adequate  expression. 

"Yes,"  Susan  said. 

She  went  to  her  work-basket  and  picked  up  her  thimble. 

"If  ever  you  see  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  again,  you  will  not, 
of  course,  mention  the  subject  to  her.  It  is  naturally  a 
painful  one." 

"Was  her  husband  drowned,  too,  Mother?" 

"Yes." 

She  took  out  her  work  and  sat  down  with  it.  She  broke 
a  length  of  cotton  from  the  reel,  and  tried  to  thread  her 
needle,  but  her  hands  shook  so  that  she  could  not  do  it. 
Audrey  took  a  step  forward,  then  stood  hesitating  to  offer 
to  thread  the  needle.  For  her  mother's  face  was  set  in 
harsh  lines  of  determination;  the  obstinacy  of  her  mouth 
and  chin  showed  with  intensified  plainness,  as  if  there 
were  some  bigger  issue  at  stake  than  the  mere  threading 
of  a  needle. 

And  when  at  length  success  was  hers,  a  gleam  of  relief 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  occasion  shone  across  her  face. 
Least  superstitious  of  mortals  as  she  was,  her  nerves  were 
so  upset  by  what  she  had  just  passed  through  that  she 
accepted  the  threading  of  the  needle  as  an  omen.  As  she 
made  a  knot  at  the  end  of  the  cotton,  she  spoke: 

"Her  child  was  drowned,  too." 
13 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AJDREY  sat  reading  her  Bible. 
She  sat  rather  erect,  her  lashes  casting  shadows  on 
her  cheeks,  her  lips  very  grave.     On  the  gate  a  thrush  had 
perched;   he  was  singing  his  gallant  little  heart  out. 

"And  the  other  woman  said,  Nay;  but  the  living  is  my 
son,  and  the  dead  is  thy  son  .  .  ."  Audrey  read,  and  be- 
tween her  and  the  page  danced  a  pink  may-tree  and  a 
thrush  singing.  ...  A  handsome,  boyish  profile.  .  .  . 

"He  will  be  at  the  dance."  Then  a  horror-stricken 
blush.  .  .  . 

"And  this  said,  No;  but  the  dead  is  thy  son,  and  the 
living  is  my  son.  Thus  they  spake  before  the  king." 

Only  five  more  days!  Had  she  forgotten  the  figures  of 
the  lancers  ?  She  would  wash  her  hair  the  night  before, 
so  that  it  should  wave  and  crinkle. 

Would  four  dances  be  too  much  ?  Because,  of  course, 
she  knew  Martin  so  well,  and  so  would  not  feel  at  all 
nervous,  as  she  would  with  a  stranger.  And  two  for  Dick, 
if  he  should  want  them.  .  .  . 

Did  thrushes  perhaps  go  to  dances  up  in  the  blue  of 
the  sky  ? 

How  he  sang!  .  .  . 

Involuntarily  she  listened  for  the  buzz  of  a  blue-bottle  . . . 
She  was  glad  that  white  suited  her  so  well.  .  .  .  Then  in 
sudden  hot  abasement  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

188 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Oh,  what  a  horrid,  hard,  callous  girl  she  was!  Only  yes- 
terday it  was  that  her  mother  had  told  her  of  the  manner 
of  her  father's  death,  and  she  could  not  keep  her  thoughts 
from  the  dance!  Hadn't  she  a  heart  at  all?  She  had 
picked  up  her  Bible  because  her  thoughts  were  so  un- 
suitable, and  now  they  were  as  bad  as  before.  Last  night 
she  had  felt  so  miserable,  and  now  because  the  sun  shone 
and  a  thrush  sang.  .  .  .  She  was  so  bitterly  ashamed  of 
herself!  More  erect  than  before,  her  lips  set  closer,  she 
went  on  reading: 

"Then  said  the  king,  The  one  saith,  This  is  my  son  that 
liveth,  and  thy  son  is  the  dead:  and  the  other  saith,  Nay; 
but  thy  son  is  the  dead,  and  my  son  is  the  living. 

"And  the  king  said,  Bring  me  a  sword.  And  they 
brought  a  sword  before  the  king. 

"And  the  king  said, Divide  the  living  child  in  two, and 
give  half  to  the  one,  and  half  to  the  other. 

"  Then  spake  the  woman  whose  the  living  child  was  unto 
the  king,  for  her  bowels  yearned  upon  her  son,  and  she  said, 
O  my  lord,  give  her  the  living  child,  and  in  no  wise  slay  it. 
But  the  other  said,  Let  it  be  neither  mine  nor  thine,  but 
divide  it. 

"Then  the  King  answered  and  said,  Give  her  the  living 
child,  and  in  no  wise  slay  it:  she  is  the  mother  thereof." 

She  looked  up  from  the  Bible,  her  face  full  of  thought. 
Susan  came  into  the  room  carrying  the  lamp,  which  she 
had  been  cleaning. 

"Mother,  wasn't  Solomon's  way  of  solving  to  which 
woman  the  baby  belonged  wonderfully  simple  and  grand  ?" 

Susan  put  the  lamp  down  on  the  table  with  a  little 
clatter.  She  turned  and  looked  at  Audrey,  at  the  Bible 

189 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

on  her  knee.     "What   made  you  read  that?"  she  said, 
sharply. 

"I  don't  know.  The  Bible  opened  there.  Don't  you 
think  it  was  wonderful,  Mother  ?  Of  course,  I  mean  for 
those  times.  No  woman  would  agree  to  have  any  child 
cut  in  halves  now." 

"Wonderful?"  Susan  gave  a  harsh  laugh.  "No!  She 
was  a  poor,  meek  creature — that  mother — or  it  wouldn't 
have  answered  as  it  did." 

A  feverish  color  had  leaped  to  her  cheeks;  her  eyes  shone. 
"No  mother  worthy  of  the  name  would  give  up  her  child  to 
another  woman!  She  would  sooner  see  it  dead  before  her! 
'Give  her  the  living  child.'  Never!  Could  she  stand  by 
and  see  another  woman  take  her  child  from  her  ? — see  it 
in  another  woman's  arms  ?" 

"But — to  save  its  life,  Mother?" 

"  I  tell  you  she  would  sooner  see  it  dead  before  her  eyes." 

"Then  you  think  that  the  other  woman  was  really  the 
mother,  after  all  ?" 

"The  other  woman  ?  'And  she  said,  Let  it  be  neither 
mine  nor  thine/  No;  Solomon  was  right,  but  she  was  a 
poor,  weak  fool  of  a  mother.  She  should  have  cried  out: 
'Kill  him!  Rather  than  give  him  to  the  other,  kill  him, 
and  he  will  still  be  mine!'" 

"Would  Solomon  have  known  then,  I  wonder  ?"  Audrey 
mused. 

"I  doubt  it;  for  men  thought  then,  as  they  think  now, 
that  a  mother  should  be  a  mass  of  maudlin  sentiment." 

She  left  the  room. 

Audrey  sat  thinking. 

Presently  Susan  came  back;  she  began  to  dust  the  room. 

"You  are  very  idle  this  morning,"  she  said. 
190 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Audrey  jumped  up  guiltily. 

"I'll  fetch  that  blouse  I  am  making,"  she  said,  going 
towards  the  door. 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  want  to  tell  you  that  —  I  have 
changed  my  mind  about  the  ball." 

She  did  not  look  at  her  as  she  spoke.  ) 

Audrey  stood  still. 

"Changed  your  mind,  Mother?     Do  you  mean — ?" 

"I  mean  I  would  sooner  you  didn't  go." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Susan  dusted  the  back  of  a 
chair,  while  Audrey  stood  and  watched  her,  her  eyes  very 
bright. 

"Why?"  she  said,  at  last,  and  there  was  a  note  in  her 
voice  that  her  mother  was  quick  to  recognize  as  new. 
"You  must  give  me  a  reason,  Mother." 

"I  have  several  reasons,"  Susan  replied,  bending  low 
over  the  chair  and  speaking  hurriedly,  as  if  she  were 
anxious  to  be  done  with  the  subject.  "It  will  very  likely 
unsettle  your  mind.  It  is  best  for  you  to  live  quietly,  as 
there  won't  be  other  dances  and — and  things  like  that. 
I  think  balls  are  foolish  things,  and  dancing  ridiculous. 
I  don't  approve  of  them.  So  you  will  stay  at  home!" 

Audrey  still  stood  by  the  door.  She  stood  very  erect,  so 
that  she  looked,  in  her  indignation,  to  tower  above  Susan, 
still  bending  to  dust  the  chair. 

"Those  are  not  reasons, "she  said,  with  judicial  coldness; 
"at  least,  they  are  not  adequate  reasons,  since  you  must 
have  thought  the  same  when  you  said  I  might  go." 

Susan  straightened  herself  and  faced  her,  the  duster  held 
tightly  in  her  right  hand. 

"Hasn't  it  ever  struck  you,"  she  said,  in  a  hard  voice, 
"that  your  position  is  rather  peculiar  ?  Do  you  like  visit- 

191 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

ing  where  your  mother  is  not  thought  good  enough  to  be 
received  ?" 

A  wave  of  scarlet  surged  over  Audrey's  face;  then  it 
receded,  and  she  answered,  sanely: 

"Of  course  I  have  thought  about  it,  Mother.  But  you 
know  that  it  isn't  true.  Mrs.  Barrington  has  asked  you  to 
go  to  the  Hall.  You  know  that  she  would  be  pleased  if 
you  would  go." 

Susan  did  not  answer  immediately.  She  recognized  the 
fact  that  she  had  a  new  Audrey  to  deal  with,  an  Audrey 
who  had  put  away  her  old  childish  fear  of  her  mother's 
anger,  and  was  prepared  to  do  battle  for  her  rights. 

To  Audrey,  standing  stiff  and  defiant,  came  memory  of 
her  mother's  grief  the  day  before,  her  telling  of  the  manner 
of  her  father's  death.  Her  face  softened;  when  she  spoke 
the  hardness  had  gone  from  her  voice. 

"Mother,  you  will  let  me  go?  How  about  my  dress? 
And  I  have  told  Mrs.  Barrington  I  can  come.  You  won't 
forbid  it  now,  Mother,  will  you  ?" 

"I  have  written,  counter-ordering  your  dress.  I  hope 
they  will  take  it  off  my  hands.  We  needn't  discuss  it  any 
more,  I  think." 

But  indignation  flamed  in  Audrey's  eye;  anger  and  dis- 
appointment shook  her  voice  as  she  began  to  speak,  but 
it  steadied  after  a  moment,  and  every  word  had  its  value, 
evidently  coming  straight  from  her  heart. 

"Mother,  it  isn't  fair!  There  is  no  real  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  go.  You  say  it  will  unsettle  my  mind — that 
there  won't  be  other  dances  and  gayeties.  Then  let  me 
at  least  seize  this  one  evening,  while  I  can.  I  shall  see 
what  a  ball  is  like.  Mother,  I  have  lived  such  a  strange 
life!  I  know  nothing.  I  cannot  laugh  and  talk  as  other 

192 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

girls  do.  You  would  not  return  the  calls  that  people  made 
when  you  came  here,  years  ago,  so  I  know  no  one — I  have 
done  and  seen  none  of  the  things  that  other  girls  do  and 
see.  It  makes  me  feel  foolish — awkward,  and  I  want  to 
go!  Oh,  I  do  so  want  to  go!  The  music  and  the  flowers 
and  the  dancing  and  fun;  and  the  dancing-room  is  such  a 
lovely  place — Mother,  you  will  let  me  go  ?  You  won't  spoil 
it  all  now  when  I  was  so  sure  ?  Say  you  have  changed 
your  mind,  Mother!"  But  the  voice,  grown  tremulous 
again  in  its  last  appeal,  sank  into  a  hopeless  cadence  on  the 
final  words.  Audrey  could  see  that  she  had  failed  to  move 
her  mother.  She  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room,  fum- 
bling for  the  door-handle,  blinded  by  a  sudden  mist  of 
tears. 

Left  alone,  Susan  sank  onto  the  chair  she  had  been 
dusting,  as  if  strength  had  left  her  suddenly.  She  put  up 
her  hands  to  her  face  and  sat  silent. 

Failure  stared  her  in  the  face — utter,  miserable  failure. 
Her  child  was  wretched,  she  hated  her  quiet  life.  To 
Susan,  then,  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  go  on  with  the 
daily  round,  that  the  end  of  everything  had  come.  To 
her,  Audrey's  outburst  was  no  mere  girlish  and  natural 
longing  for  a  little  gayety:  it  was  significant  of  far  wider 
issues  than  that;  it  held  tragedy  in  every  vibrating  word. 

She  rose  at  last,  and  mechanically  picked  up  her  duster. 

"If  Solomon's  decision — was  wrong — she  would  be  bet- 
ter punished  when  the  child  grew  up  than  if  she  had  let 
him  be  cut  in  halves." 

She  muttered  it  as  she  went  on  with  her  dusting.  She 
dusted  aimlessly,  going  over  the  same  places  again  and 
again,  and  leaving  others  untouched. 

Up-stairs,  on  her  little  bed,  Audrey  lay  and  wept. 
193 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Amelia  came  to  tell  her  that  dinner  was  ready.  She  said 
she  did  not  want  any.  Later  Amelia  reappeared,  carrying 
a  plate. 

"Now,  dearie,  you're  to  eat  a  little.  Why,  how  you've 
been  crying!  Just  like  me  when  I  was  your  age.  Girls 
have  their  troubles,  but  they  blow  over.  You  take  after 
me,  being  so  sensitive.  Just  tell  Amelia  now  what  it's  all 
about." 

Her  little  eyes  were  greedy  with  curiosity:  not  a  word 
had  Susan  vouchsafed  to  her. 

Audrey  sat  up,  pushing  back  her  hair;  she  turned  a 
miserable,  tear-stained  face  to  Amelia. 

"I'm  not  to  go  to  the  dance,  after  all,  Amelia!" 

"Lord  save  us!     And  why  ever  not  ?" 

"Mother  doesn't  want  me  to  go." 

"Well,  I  never!  And  the  dress  half  made  and  every- 
thing! I  declare  if  it  isn't  too  cruel!  And  what  reason  is 
there,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  Why  shouldn't  you  go  ?" 

"  Mother  thinks  it  would  unsettle  me,"  she  said,  wearily. 

"I'd  go,  dearie!  That  I  would!  I'll  help  you  to  get 
away  myself,  frightened  as  I  am  of  Susan,  only  you  must 
never  let  her  know  that  I  helped  you — 

"You  know  I  wouldn't  go,  Amelia,"  she  interrupted, 
listlessly. 

"Well,  any  girl  of  spirit  would,  and  that  I  do  say!  And 
no  one  could  wonder,  either." 

"Then  I  suppose  I  haven't  any  spirit.  I  can't  eat  that 
rice,  Amelia.  Do  take  it  away." 

She  wanted  Amelia  to  go,  but  Amelia  had  no  intention 
of  going:  she  was  too  much  interested  in  the  subject. 

"She  must  have  some  reason,"  she  said,  and  a  gleam  of 
sly  speculation  came  into  her  face.  "Do  you  know  any  of 

194 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

the  people  who  are  coming  to  the  dance,  dearie  ?"  she 
observed,  with  an  overdone  air  of  casualness. 

"Some.  The  Barclays  are  going,  and  the  rector  and 
his  wife,  and  a  Miss  Holmleigh  who  drove  over  once  when 
I  was  there,  and  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  is  staying  for  it."  She 
spoke  dully,  taking  no  particular  interest  in  what  she  was 
saying. 

But  Amelia  looked  triumphant.  Now  she  knew  why 
Susan  had  walked  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the  Rectory  that 
morning,  just  to  ask  a  question  about  a  new  book  of  ser- 
mons! Oh,  Susan  was  a  deep  one,  but  so  was  she! 

She  began  to  spoon  up  the  rice  Audrey  had  rejected. 

"Perhaps — she  doesn't  think  that  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  is 
fit  company  for  you,"  she  suggested,  casually,  and  she  cast 
a  queer,  frightened,  yet  eagerly  excited  look  at  Audrey. 

Audrey  looked  at  her  surprised. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Well,  if  all  you  hear  is  true — 

"Which  it  never  is,"  interpolated  Audrey,  who  felt 
pessimistical. 

"  She's  a  very  fas.t  lady.  They  do  say  she  belongs  to  the 
Smart  Set!  They  do!" 

Had  Amelia  said  she  belonged  to  the  most  rabid  society 
of  anarchists,  she  could  not  have  spoken  with  more  shocked 
horror. 

"Rubbish!"  said  Audrey,  unimpressed. 

"Rubbish  or  no  rubbish,  she  isn't  all  she  ought  to  be!" 
Amelia  cried,  her  temper  rising,  and  becoming  as  usual 
spiteful.  "I'm  sure  I  wonder  Mrs.  Barrington  asks  her 
to  stay  in  the  same  house  as  those  poor,  innocent  babes — " 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Amelia!  The  fact  that  she  is  a 
friend  of  Mrs.  Barrington's  proves  that  there  is  no  truth 

'95 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

in  what  you  have  been  saying.  Please  take  that  plate 
away." 

"You're  very  highty-tighty,  miss!  Perhaps  you've  a 
sort  of  sympathy  with  her!  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  be 
shocked  to  hear  about  the  fancy-dress  ball  she  went  to  as 
a  mermaid,  and  her  dress  so  indecent  that — " 

"Amelia,  be  quiet!  I  like  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent,  and  I 
will  not  have  you  repeat  disgusting  scandal  about  her. 
Leave  the  room  at  once!" 

There  was  cold  dignity  in  the  gesture  with  which  she 
pointed  to  the  door,  a  dignity  that  cowed  Amelia.  She 
turned  to  obey,  then  stopped  abruptly,  her  mouth  falling 
open.  Susan  stood  in  the  doorway,  but  she  was  looking 
at  Audrey,  not  at  Amelia.  The  look  was  so  strange,  there 
was  such  an  almost  mad  jealousy  in  her  face,  that  Amelia 
shuddered,  though  constitutionally  incapable  of  under- 
standing the  agony  that  was  producing  the  expression. 

Audrey  was  staring  across  out  of  the  window;  she  did 
not  see  her  mother. 

Susan  turned  and  went  down  the  passage  into  her  own 
room.  Guiltily,  Amelia  crept  down  to  the  kitchen  and 
washed  up  the  dinner-plates.  But  her  hands  shook;  there 
was  a  queer  blueness  about  her  mouth.  Once  she  put  up 
her  hand  to  her  heart,  and  this  time  she  did  not  lay  it  to 
her  right  side. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  frock  had  come.  The  dressmaker  in  Peterhamp- 
ton  regretted  that  it  was  too  far  advanced  to  permit 
of  any  change  of  plan,  and  so  it  came. 

Audrey  looked  at  it  dry-eyed:  all  its  soft  fascination 
failed  to  draw  one  tear.  She  had  cried  all  her  tears  away 
in  that  one  outburst,  and  was  now  ashamed  of  herself. 
Her  pride  was  up  in  arms.  She  felt  that  her  mother  was 
acting  unfairly.  She  was  living  through  a  tragedy.  She 
was  very  young,  and  the  dance  meant  more  than  just  a 
dance  to  her;  it  had  been  a  dream,  a  fairy-story  to  look 
forward  to;  it  had  meant  many  wonderful  things  that  were 
only  half  formulated  in  her  heart.  Its  withdrawal  from 
her  eager  anticipations  meant  the  withdrawal  of  much  of 
the  beauty  of  her  life  just  then. 

But,  although  there  was  a  new  element  in  her  bearing 
towards  her  mother — a  certain  coldness,  and  an  absence 
of  the  old  childish  awe — sufficient  of  the  old  methods  of 
thought  still  clung  to  her  to  prevent  the  idea  of  disobedience 
ever  once  entering  her  mind. 

Amelia  had  suggested  it,  and  it  had  been  put  aside  as 
an  absolute  impossibility,  as  a  suggestion  so  futile  as  to 
lack  even  interest. 

She  had  written  a  little  note  to  Marcia,  stiff  from  its 
loyalty  to  her  mother,  explaining  that  she  would  not  be 
able  to  come  to  the  ball.  She  received  in  reply  a  charming 

197 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

letter,  which  wound  up  by  assuring  her  that  if  at  any 
moment  her  mother  should  change  her  mind,  every  one 
would  be  delighted  to  see  Audrey. 

The  morning  of  the  dance  woke  in  a  soft  haze  of  color. 
Audrey,  unable  to  sleep,  sat  at  the  window  and  watched 
the  wonderful  light  top  the  distant  hills — spread  till  it 
flooded  all  the  world.  It  had  rained  in  the  night,  and 
there  were  little  golden  puddles  everywhere;  the  trees  and 
bushes  and  grass  were  hung  with  a  million  twinkling  lights. 
The  great  peace  of  the  world,  alight  with  its  own  beauty, 
brought  aching  tears  to  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

But  a  breeze,  laden  with  the  indescribable  freshness  of 
very  early  morning,  blew  the  tears  away,  made  her  healthily 
ashamed  of  them.  She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  the  quiet 
hills,  looming  in  the  golden  light,  lit  with  a  thousand  soft 
colors — blues  and  grays  and  golds.  .  .  . 

"  Dear  old  hills,"  she  murmured. 

The  light  shone  down  gently  on  her  pale  face,  lit  more 
of  its  wonderful  colors  in  her  hair.  She  felt  very  good. 
She  thrilled  with  good  resolutions  as  she  sat  and  watched 
and  listened,  and  heard  the  world  awake.  She  loved  to 
hear  the  tiny  sounds  of  stirring  life;  the  great,  beautiful 
earth  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  lazy  folk  to  begin  their  day; 
it  waited  with  such  a  patient,  quiet  that  every  tiniest  sound 
and  motion  came  to  her  as  she  sat  and  hearkened.  She 
found  herself  murmuring  some  words  she  had  read  and 
loved  a  few  days  before  in  Marcia's  room: 

"Held  her  in  peace:  so  that  a  whispering  blade 
Of  grass,  a  wailful  gnat,  a  bee  bustling 
Down  in  the  bluebells,  or  a  wren  light  rustling 
Among  sere  leaves  and  twigs,  might  all  be  heard" 
198 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Beneath  her  windows  a  bee  was  "bustling";  everywhere 
the  birds  were  waking  and  beginning  to  sing.  Presently 
louder  sounds — sounds  that  carried  with  them  a  suggestion 
of  humanity  stirring  at  last — came  to  her.  Dogs  barked, 
cocks  began  to  crow,  the  thud  of  a  horse's  hoofs  passed 
down  the  road  to  the  left  of  the  house.  Beyond  the  trees 
she  saw  smoke  curling  lazily  up  into  the  air,  soft  gray 
spirals  losing  themselves  in  the  vivid  blue.  The  world  was 
awake;  it  was  growing  busy.  A  thrush  flew  past,  carrying 
food  in  his  beak.  Again  she  thought  of  the  thrush  up  in 
the  may-tree  many  years  ago.  She  was  always  thinking  of 
those  days  now. 

When  she  went  down-stairs  she  went  armed  with  brave 
resolution;  she  would  try  to  put  away  the  thought  of  the 
dance.  She  told  herself,  in  the  goodness  born  of  the 
morning,  that  perhaps  her  mother  had  good  and  sufficient 
reason  for  her  refusal,  and  she  met  her  with  a  smile. 

After  breakfast  she  went  out:  she  fought  against  the 
sadness  that,  subtly  fed  by  the  very  beauty  of  the  day, 
sought  to  creep  upon  her.  And,  intensifying  the  sadness, 
there  was  beyond  it  a  tremendous  power  of  joy — a  joy 
quenched  by  the  thought  of  what  the  evening  would  hold 
and  what  she  would  miss,  a  joy  that  unconsciously  she 
recognized  as  being  there;  she  breathed  it  forth  when  she 
murmured:  "If  only  I  were  going  to-night!" 

She  passed  the  row  of  neat  little  red  cottages  at  the  foot 
of  the  long  hill.  In  the  gardens  the  stocks  and  pinks  were 
out;  they  scented  the  whole  road.  She  drank  in  their 
fragrance  as  she  went  slowly  past.  Farther  up  the  road 
she  heard  the  sound  of  hoofs  approaching. 

"He's  cantering  very  fast." 

She  could  not  see  him,  as  he  was  coming  up  a  road  that, 
199 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

some  way  in  front  of  her,  branched  off  to  the  left.  But 
suddenly  the  color  leaped  to  her  face,  her  heart  began  to 
beat  rapidly.  "It's  old  Squire  Armcourt,"  she  said,  and 
unconsciously  she  spoke  aloud. 

Then  the  horse  came  trotting  round  the  corner;  he  was 
a  chestnut,  and  the  sun  gleamed  on  his  coat,  turning  it  to 
shining  fire.  .  .  .  "You  must  never  be  frightened  of  any 
animal.  Now  get  up  and  stroke  her  nose.  .  .  ." 

Involuntarily,  the  boyish  voice  of  years  ago  in  her  ear, 
she  half  put  out  her  hand  to  obey  it.  Then  she  laughed, 
and  found  herself  looking  up  into  Martin's  serious  face. 

"It  isn't  the  same  horse,"  she  said,  in  an  odd  little 
breathless  voice.  "  It's  dear  old  Redcap  now." 

"Why  aren't  you  coming  to-night  ?" 

There  was  a  hint  of  masterfulness  in  his  tone;  he  was 
frowning.  He  stood  looking  down  at  her.  He  said: 

"I  was  coming  to  ask  you." 

Then  he  gave  a  short  laugh  and  a  half  apology. 

"I  suppose  it  was  pretty  cool!  I  never  thought  of 
that." 

She  did  not  reply.  For  a  moment  she  could  not.  That 
tremendous  power  of  joy  which  had  lain  dormant  had 
awakened  suddenly  at  his  words,  his  look.  The  volume 
of  it  took  away  her  breath.  She  could  not  speak;  she 
could  not  meet  his  eyes. 

He  wanted  her.  She  had  seen  and  heard  how  much  he 
wanted  her.  She  patted  the  chestnut's  neck.  She  said, 
at  last: 

"He  doesn't  like  standing." 

He  said,  gently: 

"Will  you  tell  me  why  you're  not  coming  this  evening  ?" 

"Mother  doesn't  wish  me  to." 
200 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

His  face  was  expressive;  it  was  perhaps  as  well  that  she 
was  not  looking  at  him  just  then. 

Mechanically  he  stroked  the  horse's  head  as  he  stood 
thinking. 

"Do  you  want  to  come  ?" 

She  lifted  her  head. 

"Oh  yes!" 

"Then — can't  you  come  ?"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  widened. 

"But — but  how?  Oh,  you  mean  my  mother  might 
change  her  mind.  She  won't.  I  am  quite  sure." 

He  was  silent  a  little  while.  She  pressed  her  cheek 
against  Redcap's  neck,  hiding  her  face.  In  her  mind 
she  was  saying  over  and  over  again:  "  He  wants  me  to 
go!  H*  wants  me  to  go!" 

"Audrey,  you  will  come  to-night  ?" 

He  bent  his  head  to  hers.  "Say  you  will  come  some- 
how." 

Again  she  was  swept  along  on  that  warm  tide  of  happi- 
ness. This  time  she  met  his  eyes;  she  found  them  com- 
pelling. 

"You  must  come,"  he  said. 

And  suddenly  she  knew  that  she  must  obey  him;  noth- 
ing else  mattered,  no  one  counted,  but  him,  in  all  the 
world. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  steadily,  "I  will  come." 

The  gravity  of  his  face  disappeared;  he  smiled  down 
at  her. 

"That's  right.  Thanks  awfully.  It's  no  end  good  of 
you.  What  time  will  you  come  ?  We're  dining  early — " 

"Not  to  dinner,"  she  said. 

His  face  fell. 

20 1 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Oh,  can't  you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I'll  be  at  the  Hall  about  eight  o'clock." 

"All  right,  if  you  can't  come  earlier.  We'll  send  to  fetch 
you  about  half-past  seven.  Will  that  do  ?" 

"Please  don't  send  for  me.     I — I  shall  be  all  right." 

She  saw  that  he  did  not  realize  the  situation,  and  a  new 
sensation  crept  into  her  heart;  she  felt  a  motherly  desire 
to  spare  him  all  worry.  She  smiled  up  at  him  gently. 

"That  will  be  all  right,"  she  said.  "I  don't  want  any- 
thing to  be  sent  for  me." 

"You're  sure  ?" 

"Quite  sure." 

"I'm  off  to  Peterhampton  to  telephone  about  some  of 
the  food  that  seems  to  have  gone  astray.  Good-bye  till 
this  evening."  He  mounted  and  trotted  off  down  the 
road.  She  stood  watching  him.  He  turned  at  the  corner 
and  waved  his  hat.  "Don't  forget!  Six!  You  prom- 
ised!" he  shouted. 

'    She  gave  a  little  soft  laugh — she  knew  that  she  had  never 
promised  him  so  many  dances. 

"How  beautifully  he  manages  Redcap!" 

But  the  thought  was  only  on  the  outside,  as  it  were, 
outside  the  whirling  thought  that  was  so  full  of  joy.  And 
yet  there  was  a  certain  new  restfulness,  a  sense  of  having 
given  up  her  own  will  to  a  stronger,  and  a  glorying  in  the 
deed. 

It  was  later  that  fear  of  her  mother  obtruded  on  her 
happiness,  but  she  did  not  waver;  she  had  promised.  She 
had  had  to  promise.  She  did  not  repent.  She  would  do 
it  again.  But  she  felt  that  she  could  not  go  home  and  face 
her  mother  at  the  dinner-table.  So  she  walked  on  for  a 

202 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

while,  and  did  not  reach  home  till  an  hour  after  the  dinner- 
time. 

Susan  said  merely: 

"You  are  late." 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 

She  did  not  add  that  she  was  sorry;  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  act  a  part.  Yet  she  did  not  feel  ashamed;  she 
was  so  sure  that  she  must  go  to  the  dance  that  the  deceit 
hardly  hurt  her;  she  felt  almost  that  she  would  not  care 
should  her  mother  discover  that  she  was  going — she  could 
not  stop  her  now. 

Susan  said  no  more  about  her  being  late.  She  had 
grown  more  silent,  more  unbending  than  before,  during 
these  last  few  days.  Only  her  eyes  questioned  Audrey 
feverishly,  her  lips  remained  locked.  The  tremendous 
effort  of  will  required  told  on  her  physically,  and  there  was 
a  weariness  in  her  face,  as  if  she  fought  through  the  long 
nights  and  was  very  tired. 

That  evening  Audrey  went  up  to  her  room.  Susan  was 
in  the  kitchen.  All  Audrey's  courage  had  evaporated;  she 
held  her  head  high,  but  her  hands  shook  as  she  began  to 
take  the  hair-pins  out  of  her  hair.  The  color  burned  in 
her  cheeks;  she  dropped  her  arms  to  her  sides  in  despair. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  leaned  out,  trying  to  be 
calm.  She  watched  the  shadows  lengthening  over  the 
hills,  turned  her  face  to  the  dying  breeze.  She  went  back 
to  the  unflattering  little  mirror  and  proceeded  to  get  ready. 
Her  door  possessed  no  lock;  she  knew  that  at  any  moment 
her  mother  might  come  into  the  room.  The  excitement 
that  shook  her  from  head  to  foot  was  painful. 

When  she  slipped  on  the  white  frock  she  gave  a  little 
'4  203 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

gasp  of  surprise.  She  had  never  had  anything  the  least 
like  it.  She  stood  staring  into  the  mirror,  craning  her 
neck  to  see  more  of  herself,  turning  this  way  and  that. 
She  patted  and  pulled  out  her  hair;  she  wished  for  jewelry, 
for  a  fan.  Then  she  gave  a  sudden  little  laugh,  and  she 
could  not  have  told  why,  only — only  the  dress  was  so 
very  pretty.  .  .  . 

They  had  bought  long  white  gloves  that  day  in  Peter- 
hampton.  She  had  no  shoes,  except  little  flat-heeled  black 
ones.  She  stared  at  them  doubtfully,  but  she  had  nothing 
better.  She  was  so  absorbed  with  her  dressing,  and  the 
excitement  and  terror  lest  her  mother  should  come  in,  that 
she  did  not  at  first  notice  how  dark  the  room  was  growing. 
But  presently  the  dark  was  pierced  with  a  zigzag  flash  of 
light,  and,  with  a  start,  she  realized  that  a  storm  was  be- 
ginning to  rage.  Over  the  hills  the  thunder  was  growl- 
ing angrily.  She  stood  at  the  window  and  looked  out, 
anxiety  driving  out,  for  the  moment,  thought  of  her 
mother.  The  hills  were  almost  swallowed  up  in  what  at 
first  she  thought  was  a  mist,  but  she  soon  saw  that  it  was 
heavy  rain.  The  next  moment  it  was  pattering  down  onto 
her  window-sill.  For  a  minute  she  quailed  sensitively, 
taking  the  storm,  unconsciously,  as  a  further  deterrent. 
Then  she  set  her  lips  and  turned  from  the  window.  Noth- 
ing could  stop  her — she  had  promised.  As  she  stretched 
up  to  take  down  her  old  mackintosh,  Susan's  voice  cried 
up  the  staircase: 

"Audrey,  is  your  window  shut  ?" 

There  was  a  pause  that  to  Susan  was  scarcely  noticeable, 
but  that  to  Audrey,  suddenly  sick  and  white  with  terror, 
was  of  agonized  duration. 

"The  rain  isn't  coming  in,  Mother." 
204 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"What  do  you  say  ?" 

She  drew  in  a  deep  breath,  then  spoke  clearly  and 
loudly: 

"The  rain  isn't  coming  in  at  my  window,  Mother." 

She  stood  staring  at  the  door,  unable  to  think  of  any 
means  to  keep  her  mother  from  coming  up  to  her.  The 
awfulness  of  her  disobedience  came  home  to  her  in  its  full 
strength  for  the  first  time.  But  still  she  had  no  thought 
of  breaking  her  word. 

But  Susan  did  not  come  up-stairs.  She  knew  as  well 
as  Audrey  did  what  night  it  was;  it  is  doubtful  whether 
the  dance  had  not  been  in  her  thoughts  as  much  as  in 
Audrey's  during  these  last  days.  She,  too,  had  no  inten- 
tion of  altering  her  mind,  but,  before  the  new  coldness  in 
Audrey's  manner,  she  felt  a  strange  diffidence;  she  was 
not  quite  at  her  ease  in  Audrey's  presence,  and  to  her 
stern  and  upright  soul  the  feeling  was  very  near  akin  to 
torture.  Yet  for  years  she  had  foreseen  it,  dimly,  as  a 
horror  which  she  pushed  from  her  with  iron  resolution. 
There  had  been  times  when  it  had  come  very  near,  when 
it  had  almost  taken  tangible  shape,  and  had  only  been 
driven  away  into  the  mist  of  the  future  by  the  innocence 
of  Audrey's  face,  by  some  loving  word  or  gesture.  But 
now  to  her  it  seemed  that  there  was  accusation  in  Audrey's 
gravity;  she  read  suspicion  into  her  coldness.  To  her 
there  was  no  longer  the  old  childish  innocence,  the  old 
childish  content  in  her,  which  alone  could  drive  the  horror 
away.  Jealously  sensitive  where  Audrey  was  concerned, 
she  began  irresistibly  to  turn  all  her  former  excuses 
into  reproaches;  they  no  longer  held  any  semblance  of 
comfort  or  truth.  But  as  she  turned  away  from  the 
foot  of  the  staircase,  Audrey's  clear  voice,  with  that 

205 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

new  note  of  hardness  in  it,  ringing  in  her  ears,  she 
said: 

"I  would  do  it  all  again." 

Without,  the  rain  stopped  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun. 
Audrey,  looking  from  her  window,  saw  a  wet  world  smiling 
up  at  her.  She  doubled  up  her  skirt,  fastening  it  with 
numerous  pins,  threw  on  her  rain-cloak,  and,  slipping  her 
shoes  into  one  of  its  large  pockets,  crept  across  to  the  door 
and  listened.  Even  the  thought  of  Martin,  of  her  promise, 
of  her  mother's  injustice,  failed  to  make  this  moment  any- 
thing but  distasteful  to  her.  The  house  was  very  quiet. 
Then  she  heard  Amelia  address  some  remark  to  her 
mother,  and  her  mother  reply.  They  were  in  the  kitchen; 
but  she  knew,  by  the  ease  with  which  she  heard  what  was 
said,  that  the  door  was  open.  Suppose  she  were  asked 
where  she  was  going  ?  In  fact,  she  would  surely  be  asked; 
Susan  always  liked  to  know  where  she  was  going.  She 
could  say,  "Through  Monk's  lane."  It  would  be  true. 
But  even  so —  She  went  back  to  the  mirror,  trying  to 
judge  whether  to  others  she  would  look  different  from 
usual.  To  herself  there  was  an  unmistakable  difference. 
She  gazed  earnestly  at  the  vivid  reflection  in  the  glass.  .  .  . 
Why  did  she  look  so  different  ?  It  was  her  old  mackin- 
tosh, her  usual  hat.  .  .  . 

Once  more  she  went  to  the  door.  This  time  she  heard 
another  voice;  it  was  old  Rebecca  Day's;  she  was  at  the 
back  door  and  Susan  was  talking  to  her. 

With  sudden  desperate  courage  she  dropped  the  piece 
of  paper  on  which  she  had  written,  "I  have  gone  to  the 
ball,"  down  onto  the  table,  and  ran  straight  down  the 
stairs  and  out  of  the  hall  door.  With  an  oddly  childish 
complexity  of  emotions  she  refused  to  close  the  door  quietly 

206 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

behind  her,  but  shut  it  quite  loudly,  receiving  momentarily 
a  gleam  of  comfort  from  the  act.  She  would  not  run,  and 
her  legs  felt  strangely  stiff  and  weighted,  rather  as  they  had 
felt  in  childish  nightmares,  when  escape  from  some  terrible 
fate  depended  entirely  upon  their  prowess.  She  walked 
quite  slowly,  breathing  hard,  feeling  her  mother  close  be- 
hind her  at  every  step,  hearing  her  peremptory  voice  bid- 
ding her  stop.  But  once  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  out  of 
sight  of  the  house,  her  pulses  quieted  down  a  little,  and  a 
joyous  anticipation  and  triumph  set  her  in  a  sudden  glow 
of  altogether  different  feelings. 

It  seemed  to  her,  newly  joyful,  a  beautiful  omen  that  a 
rainbow  should  glow  in  the  sky  above  her. 
.    Did  she  remember  the  steps  of  the  waltz  ?     Joyously,  a 
demurely  clad  figure,  she  twirled  in  the  road.     No  one  was 
in  sight. 

What  should  she  talk  about  to  her  partners  ?  Oh,  how 
terrible!  But  hadn't  she  read  somewhere  that  men  always 
liked  to  talk  about  themselves  ?  And  that  they  liked  you 
to  listen  and  look  sympathetic?  "I  wonder,"  mused 
Audrey,  "how  you  look  sympathetic?  A  smile  when 
they're  being  funny,  and  gravity  when  they're  not  ?"  And 
just  an  "Oh,  really?  How  interesting!"  "Yes?"  "No?" 
at  intervals.  It  shouldn't  be  very  difficult.  But  suppose 
— fear  took  her — suppose  she  were  to  dance  with  a  young 
man  who  didn't  want  to  talk!  Oh,  ghastly  possibility! 
She  was  so  ignorant,  such  a  hopeless  country  bumpkin. 
How  terrible  to  think  she  had  never  seen  London!  Dear, 
old,  wonderful,  beautiful  London!  The  weight  of  her 
ignorance  pressed  upon  her.  But  not  for  long.  Her  frock 
was  so  pretty,  and  really  it  was  so  becoming  that  she 
looked — well,  a  little  bit  pretty  herself — and  Martin  did 

207 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

not  mind  her  ignorance.  One  day  he  had  said,  "You 
have  the  most  original  way  of  looking  at  things;  you  make 
everything  so  jolly  interesting  when  you  talk!"  Yes,  he 
had!  He  had!  And  he  had  said  she  danced  "divinely!" 
Oh,  what  did  her  partners  matter  ?  She  was  going  to  a 
ball — a  real,  live,  lovely  ball!  She  stopped,  dismayed, 
when  she  turned  a  corner,  and  saw  the  state  of  Monk's 
lane.  The  heavy  shower  had  churned  up  the  mud,  the 
deep  ruts  were  full  of  water.  However,  her  dress  was 
well  pinned  up.  She  plunged  in,  nervously  afraid  of 
splashing  her  skirt.  And  slowly  the  benignity  of  the  skies 
changed  again  luridly  to  anger.  She  saw  the  fresh  storm 
coming,  and  started,  futilely,  to  run.  There  was  nowhere 
to  run  to.  She  watched  the  great  black  clouds  spread; 
saw  the  sun  disappear,  his  exit  cruelly  hastened  by  a 
great  brooding  cloud,  which  seemed  to  swallow  him  up 
in  a  fury. 

Then  the  rain  came  splashing  down,  big  drops,  few  and 
far  between  at  first,  then  a  steady  downpour.  She  cow- 
ered in  a  ditch,  beneath  a  blackberry  hedge,  till  the  storm 
was  over,  then,  wet  and  cold,  she  pursued  her  way.  The 
appalling  state  of  her  boots  depressed  her;  she  was  con- 
vinced that  all  the  freshness  of  her  frock  would  be  gone; 
her  ignorance  and  lack  of  small  talk  assumed  gigantic  pro- 
portions. But  she  pressed  on,  a  feeling  of  intense  loneli- 
ness growing  upon  her.  The  evening  had  turned  cold; 
her  mackintosh  was  thin;  she  shivered  as  she  hurried 
on.  It  seemed  hours  to  her  before  at  last  she  stood  be- 
fore the  gates  of  the  Hall.  There  a  shyness  came  upon 
her;  she  could  not  enter  that  way — some  early  visitor 
might  drive  up  just  as  she  reached  the  house.  She  turned 
aside  and  entered  by  the  garden  door,  through  which 

208 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Martin  had  hailed  her  that  afternoon  when  Bobbie  had 
been  naughty. 

Striving  after  a  little  boldness,  she  entered  the  garden; 
the  evening  had  turned  so  stormy  that  it  was  almost  dark. 
She  made  her  way  to  the  hall  door,  but  when  nearly  there 
she  stood  still,  staring  into  the  dining-room.  They  were 
still  at  dinner.  She  could  see  them  all.  Marcia,  in  palest 
green — oh,  how  beautiful  she  looked!  And  Mrs.  Pat — her 
eyes  became  riveted  on  Mrs.  Pat.  Her  frock  was  inde- 
scribable; vaguely  Audrey  knew  that  it  was  a  glitter  of 
wondrous  peacock  hue.  Slowly  her  gaze  moved  on  to 
another  woman,  a  tall  young  woman  all  in  white — masses 
of  lace  and  chiffon.  There  were  others — all  in  beautiful 
frocks,  all  with  beautiful  jewels,  all  laughing  and  talking. 
There  were  exquisite  flowers  on  the  table.  Martin  was 
bending  towards  his  right-hand  neighbor,  a  bright-faced 
little  dark  woman,  who  evidently  found  no  difficulty  in 
talking.  There  were  diamonds  in  her  hair.  .  .  .  She  was 
making  Martin  laugh.  .  .  . 

An  agony  of  utter  misery  gripped  her  in  a  cold  grasp. 
What  had  she  to  do  with  those  beautiful,  gay  people  in 
there  ?  No  one  wanted  her,  an  insignificant,  dowdy  little 
country  girl!  They  would  laugh  at  her  dress — her  dress 
which  she  had  thought  so  beautiful  a  little  while  ago! 
They  would  wonder  why  she  had  come.  .  .  .  Martin  did 
not  care.  Why  should  he  ?  He  did  not  want  her  to 
come  now.  He  had  forgotten  her.  Oh,  how  they 
laughed!  How  happy  they  were!  And  how  the  dia- 
monds flashed!  And  Martin  did  not  mind  that  the  lit- 
tle dark  woman  wore  such  a  dreadfully  low-cut  gown. 
And  Mrs.  Pat's  was  worse.  Well,  she  supposed  she  was 
a  prude;  it  was  probably  only  another  example  of  her 

209 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

awful  ignorance.  But  she  was  glad  Marcia  did  not 
wear  gowns  like  that. 

Mrs.  Pat's  voice  rang  out  in  a  few  lines  of  a  little  French 
song;  she  was  evidently  talking  of  some  play  to  the  man 
next  her.  What  a  dark,  clever  face  he  had!  Never, 
never,  would  she  dare  speak  to  him!  No,  she  would  be 
too  horribly  out  of  place  among  them.  She  looked  down 
at  her  wet  mackintosh,  old  and  dingy;  at  her  muddy 
boots;  she  put  up  her  hand  and  felt  her  wet  hair  and  hat. 
She  gave  a  miserable  little  laugh  that  left  her  throat  aching. 
Tears  smarted  in  her  eyes,  but  did  not  fall.  She  shivered 
in  a  deadly  loneliness.  For  the  first  time  she  remembered 
to  recognize  the  smell  that  had  come  from  the  kitchen  at 
home  as  she  had  run  down  the  stairs;  it  was  the  lemon 
pudding,  made  with  jam  and  sweet  sauce,  that  she  was 
so  fond  of,  and  that  Amelia  could  not  make.  Her  mother 
was  making  it  for  supper — her  favorite  pudding. 

The  tears  fell  with  a  splash.  .  .  . 

They  had  nearly  finished  dinner.  What  should  she  do  ? 
Yes,  they  were  rising.  She  shrank  back,  shaking  with  cold 
and  nervous  wretchedness.  .  .  .  Martin  was  laughing  again. 
He  was  making  a  low  bow  to  the  little  dark  woman.  She 
was  doubling  her  fist,  pretending  to  punch  him.  She 
wished  she  could  hear  what  they  were  saying;  the  windows 
were  open,  but  she  could  not  distinguish  words  at  that 
distance.  Mrs.  Pat  had  said  something  funny — they  were 
all  laughing.  She  never  said  funny  things.  .  .  . 

Now  they  were  all  gone  —  all  the  women;  the  men 
were  still  there.  Martin  was  grave  now;  he  rose  and 
left  the  room.  Was  he  going  after  the  little  dark  woman  ? 
Couldn't  he  wait  a  few  minutes  ? 

A  tall  figure  came  out  onto  the  steps.  It  was  Mar- 
2IO 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

tin.  A  footman  passed  in  the  hall  behind  him;  he 
turned. 

"Green,  has  Miss  Fielding  come  yet?" 

"No,  sir." 

The  lump  in  her  throat  grew,  suddenly,  into  a  tre- 
mendous thing;  the  tears  came  raining  down.  She  ran 
forward,  rubbing  the  tears  away  with  her  handkerchief. 
Through  the  night  a  shaky  little  whisper  reached  him. 

"Mr.  Jocelyn." 

He  turned  sharply. 

"You  ?  Why — and  you're  wet!  You  never  walked,  did 
you  ?  What  happened  ?  Did  the  horse  go  lame,  or  a 
wheel  part  company  ?" 

Her  cold  little  hand,  in  its  wet  glove,  was  held  close  in 
his  big  warm  clasp.  He  was  looking  down  at  her  anx- 
iously. 

"You  must  come  along  into  the  study — only  room  where 
there's  a  fire.  Dick's  a  most  awful  old  salamander,  you 
know.  You  must  be  so  beastly  cold  and  miserable.  I 
wish  you  had  let  me  send  something  to  fetch  you." 

Her  hand  was  tucked  comfortably  under  his  arm  now; 
he  was  talking  without  looking  at  her. 

He  had  seen  that  something  was  wrong,  and  was  giving 
her  time  to  pull  herself  together.  They  met  no  one  as  they 
crossed  the  hall. 

A  little  sob,  the  aftermath  of  her  wretchedness,  rose  to 
her  throat  as  they  entered  the  study.  The  lamp  was  turned 
low,  a  big  fire  blazed  in  the  wide  grate,  flashes  of  flame 
flickered  all  round  the  brown  room. 

"There,  now,  you  sit  here."  He  pulled  a  huge  easy- 
chair  to  the  grate.  "Let  me  take  ofF  your  coat  first.  I 
say,  I  hope  the  frock  underneath  is  all  right." 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Oh,  I  forgot  it  was  all  pinned  up!"  She  laughed  and 
blushed  as  she  began  pulling  out  the  pins.  She  turned 
down  her  skirt  and  laughed  again;  she  laughed  breath- 
lessly, a  note  of  nervousness  in  her  voice.  "  A — ball  is 
very  exciting,  isn't  it  ?"she  said.  "I — I  feel — so  happy — " 
The  last  word  stuck  a  little. 

"  You  will  feel  happier  soon,  when  you  are  warm  and 
dry,"  he  said,  quietly. 

He  flung  her  coat  onto  a  chair. 

"Has  the  rain  gone  through  ?  You're  sure  ?  Not  any- 
where ?  Your  neck  ?" 

She  put  up  her  hand  to  her  throat. 

"It's  quite  dry,"  she  said,  shyly. 

"Your  hair  is  wet,  but  it  doesn't  look  as  if  it  will  need 
any  of  Marcia's  waving  arrangements.  Now,  let  me  take 
off  your  shoes.  They're  soaked  through.  Poor  little  soul!" 

She  was  not  sure  of  the  last  words;  he  said  them  in  a 
low  voice  as  he  bent  over  her  feet. 

She  drew  her  foot  away. 

"Oh,  please — oh,  please — " 

He  was  kneeling  on  the  rug.  He  glanced  up  swiftly,  a 
smile  of  memory  flashing  across  his  face. 

"You  used  to  say  that  years  ago!  'Oh,  please — oh, 
please' — and  I  used  to  pick  you  up  in  my  arms  and  hug 
you.  Oh,  what  a  dear,  dear  little  girl  you  were  in  those 
days,  Audrey!" 

She  nestled  back  shyly;  the  big  brown  leather  chair 
swallowed  her  slim  white  figure  up  jealously. 

He  said,  in  a  queer  voice: 

"I  could  do  it  still!  You're  not  much  bigger  than 
you  were  then." 

"My  dignity  is,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh. 
212 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

He  had  her  shoes  off  now;  he  was  kneeling  on  the  rug 
looking  at  them. 

"Oh,  do  hide  them  somewhere,"  she  entreated.  "Hor- 
rid, muddy,  disgraceful  things!  And  they've  made  your 
hands  all  muddy.  I'm  so  sorry!" 

He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  hands. 
Then  he  looked  up  at  her  earnestly. 

"I  shall  keep  this  handkerchief  always,"  he  said,  "and 
never  have  it  washed!" 

"Oh,  how  funny  you  are!"  She  laughed  heartlessly. 
"I  don't  think  mud-stains  are  a  bit  romantic." 

''Don't  you?"  he  said,  with  immense  dignity.  "Are 
your  feet  wet  ?" 

She  curled  up  her  toes  beneath  the  chair. 

"Not  an  atom." 

"Let  me  feel." 

"They're  not,  really." 

"I  don't  believe  you." 

"Oh,  how  rude  you  are!" 

"You  were  rude  to  me  just  now.     You  laughed  at  me." 

She  held  out  a  foot. 

"No,  it  isn't  wet,"  he  conceded,  unwillingly.  "Now 
I'll  go  and  fetch  Marcia." 

He  rose  slowly. 

"When  did  you  dine  ?"  he  asked,  suddenly 

"Oh,  we  dine  at  two  o'clock." 

"When  did  you  have  supper,  then  ?" 

"I  didn't  want  any." 

"Ah!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  as  he  stood  before  the  fire. 

"You're  like  Robin  the  day  I  had  my  first  riding-lesson 
— such  a  long  way  up!" 

213 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

He  ignored  her  frivolity. 

"What  would  you  like?  Look  here,  I'll  tell  the  boys 
you're  here,  and  we'll  have  a  nice  little  party  all  on  our 
own.  I'll  go  and  forage." 

He  started  for  the  door. 

"Mr.  Jocelyn!  Really,  I  don't  want  anything  to  eat! 
I  honestly  don't!" 

"I  dare  say;  but  you've  got  to  eat  something.  It's 
perfectly  ridiculous.  You're  as  white  as  a  little 
ghost." 

"I'm  not.     That's  only  because — because — " 

He  turned  back. 

"Will  you  just  tell  me  why  you  walked?"  he  asked, 
gently. 

She  hung  her  head. 

"I — I  came — without  mother's  permission." 

"I  see.     She  wouldn't  give  in,  then  ?" 

"I  didn't  ask  her  again.     I  knew  she  wouldn't." 

"Then  you  meant  to  walk  all  along  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  I'd  have  fetched  you — been 
at  the  end  of — "  He  broke  off.  "No,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"I  see." 

She  smiled  at  him  gratefully. 

"It  would  have  made  it  so  much  worse,  wouldn't  it? 
Oh,  I'm  glad  you  understand!  You  always  did  under- 
stand!" 

"Did  I?  I  think  I  was  a  beastly  cub!  And  now  I'll 
fetch  you  something  to  eat." 

"  And  you  go  back  to  the  others,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
sure  you  want  to  go  back  to  the  others." 

He  paused  in  the  doorway  and  looked  at  her. 
214 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"  Audrey,  you  used  to  be  such  an  honest  little  girl 
once  upon  a  time!" 

When  he  had  gone  she  jumped  up,  and  ran  across  the 
room  to  a  quaint  old  mirror  hanging  on  the  wall.  She 
stood  on  tiptoes  and  peered  at  her  reflection.  Then  she 
frowned,  and  sighed. 

"I  look  washed-out,  and  my  hair's  all  mad.  But  he 
doesn't  want  to  go  back  to  that  dark  little  woman!  He 
doesn't!  He  doesn't!" 

She  went  to  her  rain-coat  and  fumbled  in  the  pockets 
for  her  shoes.  One  shoe  was  there,  but  only  one.  Hur- 
riedly she  searched,  poking  her  fingers  into  every  corner; 
then  she  knelt  and  looked  beneath  the  chair,  round  the 
room,  but  the  shoe  was  not  there.  She  had  lost  it  on  her 
way;  probably  it  had  fallen  from  her  pocket  when  she 
sheltered  in  the  ditch.  Now  what  was  she  to  do  ?  The 
door  opened  and  Martin  came  in. 

"Marcia's  coming  in  a  moment.  The  boys  are  bathing, 
or  saying  their  prayers,  or  something.  It's  all  right.  I've 
enlisted  Williamson's  fatherly  heart  on  your  side;  he's  go- 
ing to  bring  you  something  to  eat  himself." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  trouble.  Can  you  lend  me  a 
shoe  ?" 

"A  shoe  ?"  He  smiled.  "Haven't  you  brought  yours  ? 
You're  right  only  to  ask  for  one!" 

"I've  lost  only  one." 

"Oh,  well,  Marcia  will  lend  you  a  pair;  it  will  have  to 
be  a  pair  of  Jimmy's,  I  should  think.  Are  you  warm  now  ?" 

"Yes,  thank  you." 

He  looked  at  her  dissatisfiedly. 

"I  don't  believe  you've  had  any  lunch,  either!  You 
look  starved." 

215 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Oh  yes,  I  did,"  she  said,  with  guilty  haste.  "I  wasn't 
very  hungry,  that's  all." 

"You  need  some  one  to  look  after  you!  A  man,  with 
some  common-sense." 

There  was  a  pause  then.     Martin  poked  the  fire. 

"Mr.  Jocelyn!" 

"Yes?" 

"Will  you  tell  me  the  truth  if  I  ask  you  something  ?" 

She  was  standing  before  him;  she  looked  up  at  him  very 
earnestly. 

He  said,  impulsively: 

"I  don't  think  I  could  help  it." 

"Well,  you  see,  it's  like  this.  When  I  put  this  frock  on 
this  evening  I  thought  it  was  beautiful,  and  then — then  I 
saw  Mrs.  Pat  and  Mrs.  Barrington  and — and  others — 

He  interrupted  suddenly. 

"You  couldn't  see  into  the  drawing-room  from  where 
you  were.  When  did  you  see  them  ?" 

Slowly  the  red  crept  into  her  face.  In  her  earnestness 
she  had  forgotten  that  he  might  ask  that. 

"I — I  had  been  there — a  little  while — before  you  came 
out.  I  saw  them  at  dinner."  Involuntarily  she  took  a 
step  nearer  to  him  as  she  spoke;  she  glanced  round  the 
room  with  a  little  scared  look  in  her  face.  "It  was  so 
cold  and  wet  out  there,"  she  said. 

"Of  course  it  was.  It  was  ridiculous  of  you  to  loiter 
there.  I  expect  you'll  have  an  awful  cold  after  it!" 

He  spoke  roughly,  but,  sensitive  as  she  was,  she  was  not 
at  all  hurt. 

"No  wonder  you're  so  pale!  Come  closer  to  the  fire. 
Sit  down.  Now,  what  was  I  to  tell  the  truth  about  ?" 

"My  frock.  You  see,  when  I  saw  those  others — oh, 
216 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

well,  mine  is  so  different" — she  looked  at  him  very  wor- 
ried and  anxious — "I  want  to  know  if — if  it  look  sat 
all  dowdy  to  you,  who  are  used  to  the  other  sort.  I  mean, 
does  it  matter  aiufully  that  it's  so  much  plainer  ?"  She 
stood  a  little  way  off,  her  eyes  scanning  his  face  anxiously. 
''Please  don't  pay  me  any  compliments,"  she  said,  a  note 
of  impatience  in  her  voice. 

"It's  rather  difficult  not  to.  No,  you're  certainly  not 
dowdy."  He  was  very  grave.  "Mrs.  Pat's  dress  would 
look  ridiculous  on  you.  So  would  Marcia's.  Yours  is  per- 
fect, I  think." 

Her  face  was  radiant. 

"Really?  You're  not  saying  it  just  because  you  want 
to  be  polite  ?" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  polite  at  all.  I'd  much  sooner  be 
able  to  tell  you,  with  honesty,  that  you've  ruined  your 
dress  loitering  out  in  the  garden,  that  it's  crushed  and 
spoiled.  I  can't  think  why  it  isn't,  either." 

"Dearest!  How  sweet  of  you  to  come,  after  all!"  A 
blue-dressing-gowned  Jimmy  threw  herself  into  Audrey's 
arms. 

"How  awfully  sweet!"  from  a  blue-gowned  Tommy. 

Then  a  little  "How-do-you-do  ?"  from  Dickie. 

Williamson,  big  and  benign,  appeared  with  an  appetizing 
little  dinner. 

"What  fun !"  Jimmy  remarked.  "  And  I  know  you  well 
enough  to  make  personal  remarks,  don't  I  ?  I  do  so  like 
your  frock,  dear.  Oh,  will  you  wear  my  pearl  neck- 
aliss  ?" 

"And  my  brooch!" 

"And  mine!" 

Exit  of  three  blue  figures. 

217 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Audrey  was  decked  in  the  jewels.  Martin  left  the  room 
for  a  while,  and  returned  with  a  bunch  of  lilies-of-the- 
valley. 

"I  think  they're  most  like  you,"  he  murmured,  as  she 
took  them. 

She  was  not  pale  now,  but  the  reaction  brought,  every 
now  and  then,  a  little  breathless  catch  to  her  throat.  She 
was  so  happy  and  warm;  they  were  all  so  marvellously 
kind  to  her.  Dickie,  eying  her  earnestly,  opined  that 
though  she  was  not  quite  so  beautiful  as  her  mother,  still 
she  was  very  beautiful. 

"Not  quite!"  Audrey  laughed.  "No,  not  quite!  Oh, 
Dickie,  Dickie,  I'm  so  happy!" 

Marcia  came  in  as  she  spoke. 

"I  couldn't  get  away  before.  Dear,  I  am  so  glad  you 
have  come.  Let  me  look  at  you.  Well,  you  look  pretty 
well,  I  think,  if  you  have  been  through  all  the  terrible  hard- 
ships Martin  hinted  at.  I  expected  to  find  you  just  re- 
covering from  a  swoon." 

Audrey  looked  a  little  abashed. 

Marcia  bent  and  kissed  her. 

"You're  sweet,  dear,"  she  whispered.  "I  wish  you  be- 
longed to  me." 

"I've  only  one  shoe,  and  my  hair  is  awful!"  Audrey 
laughed,  because  that  was  not  what  she  wanted  to  do  or 
say  at  all. 

"Your  hair  is  easily  remedied,  but — who  will  have  a 
shoe  to  fit  you,  I  wonder  ?" 

"It's  like  Cinderella.  Martin,  you're  the  Prince,  go 
and  find  her  her  shoe!"  cried  Jimmy,  dancing  around  in 
her  dressing-gown. 

"Oh  yes;  go  quickly,  Cousin  Martin!" 
218 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Martin  glanced  down  humorously  at  himself,  then  at  the 
window. 

"In  the  days  of  chivalry,"  he  said,  firmly,  "it  never 
rained." 

"Mrs.  Pat's  shoes  are  teeny-weeny,"  said  Dickie, 
thoughtfully. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Pat  herself  came  in. 

"I  heard  my  name!  'Who  steals  my  name  steals  trash.' 
Holloa,  child,  what  a  white  dream  you  are,  to  be  sure — the 
sort  of  dream  good  people  have  in  the  early  morning." 

"She  has  lost  a  shoe,"  Marcia  said.  "And  we  were 
wondering  if  you  could  lend  her  a  pair.  Mine  are  too 
large." 

Mrs.  Pat  stuck  out  a  tiny  foot  in  a  silver  shoe,  and  con- 
sidered it. 

"If  that  child  takes  as  small  a  shoe  as  I,  I'll  never  speak 
to  her  again.  I'm  noted  for  the  narrowness  of  my  feet. 
It's  been  mentioned  in  the  papers.  Martin,  take  it  off!" 

He  slipped  it  oft  and  brought  it  to  Audrey.  Jimmy  ran 
at  him  with  a  cushion. 

"Put  it  on  here,  Cousin  Martin!  The  Prince  did.  You 
sit  down,  Audrey.  Cinderella  did." 

"So  we're  enacting  Cinderella,  are  we?  Marcia,  are 
you  and  I  the  ugly  sisters  ?  So  the  shoe  does  fit.  Martin, 
come  and  put  it  on  again.  How  now,  Jim  ?  I'm  Cin- 
derella, too." 

"You've  had  a  husband,  so  you  can't  be." 

"That  makes  me  all  the  more  fascinating  and  dangerous! 
This  is  Cinderella  up  to  date,  you  know.  Miss  Fielding, 
if  you're  not  frightened  that  in  my  jealousy  I  shall  stick  a 
dagger  into  you,  come  with  me  and  I'll  lend  you  some 
shoes." 

is  219 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Thank  you  very  much." 

Audrey  followed  her  from  the  room.  At  the  door  she 
paused  a  moment  and  looked  back;  she  had  been  very 
happy  there;  there  was  reluctance  in  the  poise  of  her 
figure. 

"I  don't  want  to  go,"  she  murmured,  childishly. 

Martin  heard  and  understood.  He  said,  bending  his 
head  to  hers: 

"I  wish  you  would  stay  here  forever — with  me." 

She  had  been  looking  into  the  room,  noting  how  the  fire- 
light flickered  on  Marcia's  frock,  on  her  diamonds,  on 
Jimmy's  hair,  on  the  silver  upon  the  tray  Williamson  had 
brought.  She  had  been  loving  the  room,  now  she  glanced 
up  at  him  startled;  the  red  leaped  to  her  cheeks  at  his 
tone.  She  could  think  of  nothing  to  say;  her  eyes  looked 
into  his,  fascinated  by  their  passionate  earnestness.  She 
was  frightened  at  the  sudden  glimpse  he  had  given  her  of 
his  soul;  she  shrank  back  timidly. 

His  face  changed;  he  smiled  tenderly. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said,  gently.  "How  many 
dances  will  you  give  me  ?" 

She  said,  feeling  strange: 

"I  don't  know." 

"You'll  let  me  choose?" 

"Yes." 

"Thank  you." 

"And  you — you  won't — "  She  spoke  irhpulsively,  then 
stopped,  growing  red. 

"No,  I  won't — to-night,"  he  said. 

She  turned  and  ran  blindly  up  the  stairs  and  into  Mrs. 
Pat. 

"I  never  spoil  sport,"  Mrs.  Pat  observed,  "which  should 
220 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

be  put  in  the  scale  on  the  light  side  for  me  some  day. 
You'll  want  white  shoes,  of  course." 

"I've  black  stockings." 

"Oh,  then  I'll  lend  you  stockings,  too.  White  looks 
better." 

"How  kind  you  are!"  Audrey  said,  earnestly. 

They  had  entered  Mrs.  Pat's  room.  She  turned  and 
looked  down  into  Audrey's  face. 

"I  believe  you  mean  it!  What  an  odd  child  you  are! 
Why,  my  friends  borrow  my  handkerchiefs,  my  scent,  my 
money,  my  wraps,  and  forget  to  return  them,  too!  And  I 
do  the  same  to  them.  Hitherto  my  shoes  have  been  im- 
mune, because  they  wouldn't  fit  them.  Lucille,  bring  me 
some  white  shoes  and  stockings." 

In  the  full  light  Audrey  saw  for  the  first  time  the  mag- 
nificence of  her  gown.  She  stared  at  her  fascinated;  even 
the  lines  about  her  eyes  fascinated  her. 

"Oh,  you  are  wonderful!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low  voice. 
"I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  you  did  suddenly  produce 
a  dagger!" 

"You  little  cat!  You  mean  that  I  look  wicked!  I'm 
an  angel,  child,  a  saint  —  St.  Patrick,  as  some  of  the 
witty  young  men  of  to  -  day  call  me.  How  old  are 
you  ?" 

"Nearly  twenty." 

"You're  a  baby.  How  old  do  you  think  I  am,  Baby 
Fielding  ?" 

It  was  asked  lightly.  Audrey  did  not  know  that  Mrs. 
Pat,  possessed  by  a  horror  of  advancing  years,  was  wait- 
ing breathlessly  for  her  answer.  She  studied  her  seriously; 
to  her  innocent  eyes  the  beautiful  make-up  was  a  beautiful 
complexion. 

221 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"I  suppose  you  are  Marcia's  age,"  she   said — "thirty* 

» 
one. 

"You're  a  clever  baby,  after  all.  Now,  which  shoes 
would  you  like  ?" 

Lucille  was  holding  out  a  pair  of  simple  little  white  satin 
shoes  and  a  gorgeous  pair  of  embroidered  gold  and  white. 

"Oh,  not  those,  thank  you!  I'd  never  dare  dance  in 
anything  so  lovely.  May  I  wear  these  satin  ones  ?" 

Arrayed  in  white  shoes  and  stockings,  she  slipped  across 
into  Marcia's  room  to  rearrange  her  hair. 

Presently  in  came  Dick. 

"I  say,  old  girl,  that  beastly  stud  is  digging  into  my 
neck —  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!  I  thought  you  were 
Marcia." 

"  Do  fine  feathers  make  fine  birds  to  that  extent  ?"  she 
laughed.  "Please  don't  go.  I've  done  my  hair." 

She  slipped  past  him  out  into  the  corridor.  At  the  head 
of  the  stairs  she  came  upon  a  fat  white  bundle,  golden- 
tipped,  huddled  up  against  the  wall. 

"Bob's — goin' — down — to  see — ole  Audrey,"  observed 
the  bundle,  drowsily,  and  without  looking  up. 

"Duckie,  sweet,  loveums,  I'm  here,"  said  Audrey,  utterly 
absurd  out  of  the  exuberance  of  her  heart,  and  hugging  the 
bundle  to  her. 

Bobbie's  yellow  head  fell  against  her  shoulder.  Bobbie 
smiled  seraphically. 

"  The  dear  Lord  has  a  party,  too,  to-night.  He  said  He 
was  awful  sorry  He  couldn't  ask  me,  an'  I  said,  'Pray  don't 
mention  it.  I  ker-wtte  understand.'  Heaven's  gettin' 
awful  full,  I  'spect,  'cause  there's  all  the  ole  Bible  peoples 
an'  all  the  ole  History  peoples,  too  .  .  ."  Her  voice  trailed 
off  sleepily. 

222 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Bobbie,  I  love  you  so,  I  can't  leave  you,"  Audrey  said. 
"Every  one  'dores  ole  Bob,"  cooed  the  young  person, 
amiably. 

"Conceited  little  duck.  You're  rather  like  a  duck — so 
soft—" 

"Now  lay  me  In  my  lickle  bed, 
Dear  angels  watch  about  my  head, 
An    homeward  come 
With  beat  of  drum 
An'  a  rum-tum-tum — " 

sang  Bobbie,  somewhat  mixed — 

"An*  a  rum-tum-tummy — 

Bob's  tummy  is  cold!"  She  opened  reproachful  blue  eyes. 
"Holloa,  Dad!" 

Dick  was  coming  down  the  corridor. 

"Why,  you  bad  sinner,  you  ought  to  be  in  bed.  Give 
her  to  me,  Audrey." 

"Bob's  turn — ruzzle — guzzle,  Daddy!  Be  a  ole  bear  in 
my  neck." 

Audrey  went  with  him  to  Bobbie's  bedroom,  whence  she 
had  escaped  unobserved.  By  the  time  they  arrived  there 
Bobbie  was  fast  asleep.  He  laid  her  down  gently,  and 
covered  her  up. 

"Oh,  what  a  little  angel  she  looks!"  Audrey  whispered. 

He  shook  his  head,  raising  his  eyebrows  humorously. 

"Don't  encourage  me,"  he  said.  "She's  said  several 
good  things  to-day,  but  I  won't  repeat  them  to  a  soul. 
If  you  only  knew  what  a  strict  watch  a  fond  father  has  to 
keep  over  his  tongue.  And  all  the  time  I'm  convinced 
that  my  children  really  do  say  and  do  things  that  are 

223 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

• 
clever  and  funny  and  altogether  wonderful.     Every  fool's 

convinced  of  the  same  thing  about  his  uninteresting  chil- 
dren; that's  the  worst  of  it." 

"But  the  boys  really  are  quite  different  from  other 
children,"  she  assured  him.  "Do  tell  me  all  the  good 
things  they  say.  I  love  to  hear  them." 

"You're  a  bad  little  girl,"  he  reproved  her,  leading  the 
way  from  the  room.  "I'm  due  down-stairs  long  ago. 
No;  I'm  stern  with  my  babbling  tongue.  A  fellow  told 
me  a  story  the  other  day  of  his  little  boy.  He  said,  'You 
know,  my  Archie  is  the  most  wonderful  little  chap!  We're 
afraid  sometimes  whether  his  brain  isn't  too  precocious, 
he's  so  bright  and  cute!  Now  I'll  give  you  an  instance. 
The  other  day  he  was  trotting  along  beside  me;  we  were 
going  through  one  of  my  fields,  and  presently  the  little 
chap  looks  up  at  me  and  says,  "Moo-cow."  I  didn't  think 
anything  of  it  at  the  time,  but  when  we  got  home  I  men- 
tioned it  to  Maude.  She  looked  excited.  "Which  field 
was  it?"  she  asked.  I  told  her.  "Why,  George,"  she 
said,  "you  know  Buttercup  has  been  in  that  field  lately!" 
She  rang  for  the  nurse,  and  asked  her  if  she  had  taken 
Master  Archie  along  that  way  lately,  and  she  had!  She 
had,  really!  Now,  there's  a  marvellous  intelligence  for 
you!  Look  at  the  power  of  reasoning,  and  of  memory! 
And  he's  not  three  years  old,  yet,  you  know.'  There,  and 
that's  what  I've  got  to  guard  against,"  Dick  finished,  as 
they  entered  the  drawing-room. 

After  that  the  evening  became  fairyland  for  Audrey. 
She  found  herself  laughing  and  talking  without  any  trouble 
at  all.  Her  diffidence  vanished  when  she  discovered  that 
she  was  obliged  to  send  partners  away.  She  laughed  when 
it  struck  her  suddenly  that  she  was  chattering  to  the  man 

224 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

with  the  dark  clever  face,  to  whom  she  had  been  so  sure 
she  could  never  say  a  word.  And  he  wanted  another 
dance,  so  he  wasn't  bored.  And  every  one  was  so  gay  and 
nice  and  kind,  and  she  hadn't  forgotten  any  of  the  dances 
at  all.  But  she  found  herself  unconsciously  dividing  the 
evening  into  parts,  and  it  was  Martin's  dances  that  headed 
the  divisions.  Martin  danced  so  beautifully,  and  he  was 
so  kind,  and  he  looked  at  her  so — so  gently. 

Only  the  Professor  frowned. 

He  looked  hopelessly  out  of  place  there,  and  his  presence 
exercised  a  good  many  minds.  He  refused  to  dance,  pro- 
nouncing it  an  "undignified  and  unhealthy  form  of  exer- 
cise." Marcia  had  asked  him  for  the  sake  of  his  wife, 
who  had  an  incongruous  fondness  for  balls, and  was  pathet- 
ically grateful  to  any  one  who  was  kind  enough  to  dance 
with  her.  She  had  no  sense  of  time  at  all,  and  was  very 
awkward,  but  she  adored  any  and  every  dance. 

"Do  you  know,"  Martin  said  to  Audrey,  "I  read  some- 
thing to-day  that  applies  to  you." 

"What  was  it?" 

"Dancing  should  give  you  the  idea  of  a  lightness  and  a 
suppleness  that  are  not  of  the  body.  The  sole  merit  of 
the  arts  ...  is  to  make  the  soul  imaginable  by  means  of 
the  body.'" 

"I  think  it's  unkind  to  look  at  Mrs.  Forbes  while  you 
say  that." 

"I  wasn't  looking  at  Mrs.  Forbes.  I  may  have  been 
looking  through  her." 

"That's  worse.  Mrs.  Pat  would  tell  you  that  no  woman 
likes  a  man  to  look  through  her." 

"I'm  sure  Mrs.  Forbes  wouldn't  mind.  It's  not  so  bad 
as  having  some  one  always  looking  over  your  head." 

225 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

+ 

"Poor  Mrs.  Forbes.  Can  you  think  why  she  married 
the  Professor  ?" 

"  Well,  he  wasn't  always  such  a  bombastic  old  fool. 
My  father  and  he  were  quite  chums  years  ago.  Anyway, 
I  think  it's  just  as  much  a  problem  why  he  married  her!" 

"You  are  ungallant." 

"I've  danced  with  her  once  to-night,  and  I'm  to  do  it 
again.  I  disdain  to  annotate  those  facts." 

"She  knows  she  can't  dance.  It  must  feel  queer  and 
horrid  to  be  so  humble  and  meek,  don't  you  think  ?" 

"Ghastly;  but  I'd  just  as  soon  dance  those  dances 
with  her  as  any  one  else." 

"Really?     Now  you  are  gallant." 

"  It's  the  truth.  None  of  the  dances  matter  except  four. 
I  feel  just  as  if  they're  not  real,  as  if  I'm  a  mechanical 
thing  that's  been  wound  up  to  perform  certain  steps  and 
say  certain  things,  while  the  real  me  is  a  sort  of  smothered 
volcano — 

"I'm  terrified  of  volcanoes,"  she  put  in  hurriedly. 

"There  won't  be  an  eruption  to-night." 

"Don't  you  think  earthquakes  must  be  the  most  terrible 
things  in  the  world  ?  Nowhere  to  run  to — you  can't  get 
away  from  them.  Just  the  great  earth  opening  and  hug- 
ging you  up.  Oh,  awful!" 

"I  wish  I  was  an  earthquake,"  Martin  said,  absurdly. 

And  then  they  both  laughed. 

Such  little  things  made  them  laugh  that  night,  and 
among  the  little  things  was  the  Professor's  dour  expres- 
sion. 

But  as  Mrs.  Forbes  panted  along  beside  her  husband 
on  their  way  home  a  few  hours  later,  he  muttered  spite- 
fully to  himself: 

226 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"I  wonder  what  Hilary  Jocelyn  would  say!  They 
wouldn't  laugh  and  ignore  me  if  they  knew  what  I  know!" 

"What  do  you  say,  dear  ?" 

"Nothing!  Nothing!  John  Fielding  was  that  girl's 
father,  wasn't  he  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  if  you  mean  Audrey — •" 

"Whom  else  should  I  mean  ?  So  John  Fielding  was  her 
father!"  He  gave  an  unpleasant  chuckle.  "And  Hilary 
Jocelyn  never  forgets!  Not  he!  That  young  lady  will 
have  to  climb  down  several  pegs  if  she  intends  to  be  the 
future  Mrs.  Martin  Jocelyn.  He'll  want  careful  handling 
— very  careful  handling!  Laugh  at  me,  do  they  ?  Um — 
I  may  find  occasion  to  write  to  Hilary  Jocelyn — I  say  I 
may  find  occasion  to  write  to  him.  We  will  see." 

"Full  of  wonderful  thoughts  even  after  a  ball,"  pondered 
his  humble  little  spouse,  whose  feet  ached,  but  whose  tem- 
per was  as  good  as  it  always  was. 

"Audrey,  the  Letheridge's  pass  your  house,  and  will 
have  room  for  you  in  their  brougham." 

Martin  interposed,  frowning: 

"I'm  going  to  drive  her  home." 

"Dear  boy,  Mrs.  Letheridge  proffered  her  brougham, 
and  I  accepted." 

"That  will  do  beautifully,"  Audrey  put  in,  swiftly. 

Marcia  smiled  at  her. 

"You're  sure  you  won't  stay  ?" 

"Yes,  quite,  thank  you." 

"Look  here,  Marcia,  Miss  Fielding  promised  that — 

"Oh  no!"  Audrey  said.     "I  only  said—" 

"Fight  it  out  between  yourselves,"  Marcia  observed 
serenely,  and  walked  away. 

227 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Martin  said,  "I'm  sorry  I  asked  you  to  let  me  drive  you 
home.  Had  I  known  how  very  objectionable  the  pros- 
pect would  be  to  you,  I  shouldn't  have  thought  of  asking 
you." 

For  a  moment  she  quailed;  he  looked  so  big,  so  cold, 
and  angry. 

Then  the  womanhood  in  her  childish  body  asserted 
itself.  She  held  her  head  high,  and  gave  a  careless  little 
laugh. 

"It  certainly  would  have  been  objectionable  if  you 
meant  to  be  so  bad-tempered,"  she  said. 

They  were  in  the  conservatory.  It  struck  her  with  ter- 
ror that  his  face  was  white — it  showed  so  white  against 
the  palm  behind  his  head.  And  the  blue  of  his  eyes  was 
steely.  She  was  afraid  of  him. 

"Shall  we  go  back  to  the  ball-room  ?"  she  said. 

"No." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"Really,  you  are  very  rude,  Mr.  Jocelyn.  I  wish  to  go 
back." 

"To  get  rid  of  me  ?  Your  next  partner  hasn't  come  to 
claim  you  yet.  But,  of  course,  if  you  wish  it — 

"I — I  want  a  bit  of  that  cherry-blossom  first,"  she  said, 
hurriedly. 

He  moved  away,  and  plucked  her  a  spray. 

"Is  that  enough?" 

"Yes,  thank  you." 

She  took  a  long  while  fastening  it  into  her  frock.  He 
stood  by  quite  silent. 

She  broke  out,  petulantly: 

"Why  don't  you  say  something  ?  I  don't  want  to  talk. 
You  talk." 

228 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Awfully  good  floor,  isn't  it?  And  good  band,  too. 
Did  you  see  that  little  Embrook  come  a  cropper  ?  He 
went  down,  and  bounced  up  again  like  a  ball — ' 

"All  my  partners  have  said  that." 

"Have  they  ?     I'm  sorry.     Shall  we  go  back  now ?" 

"Yes." 

She  took  the  flower  from  her  frock. 

"I  don't  like  it  there,"  she  said,  and,  always  tender  with 
flowers,  stuck  it  into  the  damp  mould  of  the  pot  beside  her. 
"Now  I've  made  my  finger-tips  mouldy,"  she  laughed. 

She  greeted  the  weedy  youth  who  approached  with  a 
dazzling  smile.  As  they  moved  away  together  Martin 
heard  her  say,  enthusiastically:  "I  simply  adore  this 
waltz!" 

Throughout  it  she  talked  and  laughed,  but  her  eyes  were 
strained.  In  her  heart  was  a  terrifying  woe:  it  seemed  to 
her  that  the  end  of  all  things  had  come.  She  had  never 
dreamed  that  Martin  could  look  like  that.  He  looked  as 
if — almost  as  if  he  hated  her!  His  face  was  as  cold  as 
ice — 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,  I  love  flowers!  My  favorites?  Oh,  I 
don't  know.  Almost,  I  think,  roses.  But  I  love  them 
all  .  .  ." 

He  must — almost — hate  her,  if  he  could  look  at  her  like 
that.  And  he  had  looked  so  handsome,  too — 

"  Did  he  say  that  really  ?  How  lovely!  Isn't  it  wonder- 
ful what  queer  things  people  say  ?  I  think  children's  say- 
ings are  the  best,  don't  you  ?  The  little  Barringtons  do  say 
the  funniest  things.  Did  you  ever  hear  what  Jimmy  said 
about  church  ?  .  .  ." 

She  wished  that  horrible  ache  would  not  keep  climbing 
up  to  her  throat.  And  she  was  so  tired.  What  an  inter- 

229 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

minable  waltz  it  was.  Had  she  been  in  the  wrong  ?  But 
she  had  not  really  promised  him  that  he  should  drive  her 
home;  she  had  only  said  it  was  very  kind  of  him,  and  she 
hated  to  be  so  much  trouble;  and  then  when  Marcia  sug- 
gested that  she  should  go  home  with  the  Letheridges,  what 
could  she  say  ? 

"No,  really  ?     Tell  me  some  more." 

She  had  hurt  him,  and  all  because  of  her  own  petty 
feeling  that  she  must  not  seem  anxious  to  have  him  drive 
her  home. 

Sternly  she  took  herself  to  task.  She  asked  herself — 
would  she  have  agreed  so  eagerly  to  Marcia's  proposition 
had  Martin,  her  promised  escort,  been  a  woman  ?  Her 
conscience  answered  her  plainly  in  the  negative.  In  that 
case,  presupposing  Martin  a  woman  friend,  she  would 
have  hesitated,  and  made  it  clear  to  him — her — that  she 
was  only  thinking  of  agreeing  to  save  him — her — trouble. 
So  she  had  been  despicably  self-conscious  and  petty.  She 
thought  it  all  out  in  her  serious  way  while  the  youth  beside 
her  told  her  his  ambitions. 

She  scourged  herself  for  her  pettiness;  she  was  so  inex- 
perienced that  she  could  not  understand  it,  could  not  de- 
fine any  motive  for  it. 

"I  will  tell  him  I  am  sorry." 

Her  eyes,  at  last,  sought  him  across  the  room.  The  next 
minute  Martin  was  beside  her. 

"I  say,  Bertram,  will  you  let  me  speak  to  Miss  Fielding  ? 
I  have  a  message  for  her  from  Mrs.  Barrington." 

The  weedy  youth  grew  faintly  pink,  he  looked  up,  hesi- 
tating. Martin  looked  down. 

"Oh — oh,  certainly,"  said  the  weedy  youth,  and  van- 
ished. 

230 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Will  you  come  back  to  the  conservatory  ?"  Martin  said. 

"Yes." 

He  found  their  old  place,  an  odd  little  unexpected  nook 
that  no  one  else  seemed  to  have  discovered.  Then  he 
turned  to  her.  He  said,  with  a  sort  of  simple  strength 
that  she  loved: 

"  I  was  a  brute.     Will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

She  gave  a  little  tremulous  laugh. 

"I — I  was  going  to  tell  you  that — that  I  was  sorry,"  she 
said,  childishly. 

"You!  Good  God,  child,  don't  do  that!  Why  should 
you  let  me  drive  you  home  ?  You're  too  good  to  me 
always,  only — I  couldn't  live,  I  think,  unless  you  were, 
Audrey." 

There  was  a  quivering  silence. 

Beyond  the  palms,  above  the  tinkling  of  the  fountain,  a 
woman's  laugh  came  to  them.  Audrey  started,  and  spoke. 
She  never  knew  afterwards  what  she  said. 

She  said,  in  a  strained  voice: 

"I  do  like  a  fountain,  don't  you  ?" 

He  did  not  answer.  For  a  minute  he  was  silent,  then 
he  spoke  very  gently: 

"Audrey,  why  are  you  frightened  of  me?  I'll  be  so 
quiet,  dear,  I  won't  touch  you,  only  I  must  tell  you  now — 
I  can't  keep  it  back  any  longer.  I  know  you  don't  care — 
yet,  but — I  want  you  to  promise  you  will  try — that's  all — 
just  to  try.  Sometimes  I've  thought  you're  fond  of  me — a 
little.  It's  no  good  my  saying  I'm  not  worth  you.  It  goes 
so  deep,  I  can't  say  it.  If  you  knew  what  you  are  to 
me—" 

He  stopped  abruptly.  Emboldened  by  his  quiet  voice 
she  cast  a  fleeting  glance  at  his  face,  and  above  all  the 

231 


THE   G.REATER    MISCHIEF 

turmoil,  above  the  rapture  that  was  making  her  heart's 
beating  almost  choke  her,  and  so  was  almost  pain,  she 
received  a  shock  that  sent  all  thought  of  herself  from 
her.  For  his  face  was  white,  and  she  realized  dimly  by 
the  lines  round  his  mouth  what  his  determination  not  to 
scare  her  was  costing  him.  She  gave  a  little  cry — "Oh, 
Martin,  don't  look  like  that!  I  do  love  you!  Oh,  I  do!" 

"And  you'll  never  be  frightened  of  me  again  ?" 

"No." 

"I'm  terrified  of  you,"  he  declared. 

And  she  laughed  gayly. 

"Where  is  my  little  piece  of  cherry-blossom  ?"  she  said, 
peering  into  the  fern-pot  where  she  had  planted  it,  because, 
in  spite  of  her  brave  "No,"  of  just  now,  she  found  the 
fern-pot  easier  to  face  than  Martin. 

"Here,"  he  said. 

She  turned. 

He  tapped  a  pocket. 

"I  came  back  and  fetched  it." 

"Oh,"  she  said. 

"Audrey?" 

"Yes." 

"Aren't  you  ever  going  to  look  at  me  again  ?" 

He  drew  her  closer  as  he  spoke. 

"You're  like  a  little  flower — I'm  afraid  of  crushing  you. 
And  you're  afraid,  too.  You  are,  dear.  But  you  won't  be, 
soon,  will  you  ?" 

She  tilted  back  her  head  and  looked  at  him  at  last:  her 
eyes  were  soft  and  misty,  and  so  beautiful  that  he  caught 
his  breath  as  he  looked  into  them. 

"Please  don't  be — disappointed,"  she  said,  shakily. 
"You  see,  I — I'm  not — used  to  it — 

232 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Oh,  you  darling!  No,  I  won't  be  disappointed.  Dis- 
appointed, when  you've  told  me  that  you  love  me! 
Dear—" 

Footsteps  drew  near;  lie  stopped  abruptly;  the  air 
seemed  to  quiver  passionately  with  the  words  he  had  been 
going  to  say. 

"Oh,  Miss  Fielding,"  the  dark  man  with  the  clever  face 
approached  for  his  second  dance;  the  cleverness  was 
marred  now  as  he  looked  at  Martin  with  what  was  very 
much  like  a  scowl,  "our  waltz  is  nearly  finished,"  he 
said,  coldly. 

And  then  Audrey  astonished  Martin.  No  remorse,  no 
slightest  suspicion  of  compunction  showed  she. 

"Oh,  is  it?"  she  said,  airily.  "Shall  we  dance  the 
remnant  ?" 

He  did  not  know  that  all  the  world  and  the  people  in 
it  were  unreal  and  of  no  account  to  her  just  now,  always 
excepting  himself.  That  to  him  also,  in  the  glorious  self- 
ishness of  love,  no  one  counted  except  Audrey,  beyond 
the  fact  that  he  went  so  far  as  to  find  every  one  else  mildly 
irritating,  in  no  wise  taught  him  to  understand  her  mood. 
His  love  was  too  big  for  him  to  be  able  yet  to  realize  how 
deeply  she  cared. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Jocelyn." 

A  demure  little  voice,  a  demure  hand  extended  through 
the  open  door  of  the  motor  brougham. 

"It  has  been  a  most  delightful  dance.  Mr.  Barrington, 
tell  Mrs.  Barrington  from  me  that  no  one  else  has  such 
successes  as  she  has!"  Mrs.  Letheridge's  high  voice  rang 
out  unabashed  by  the  great,  gray  stillness  of  the  waking 
earth. 

233 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Forsyth.  Don't  be  silly!  three  dances 
were  more  than  you  deserve."  Millicent  Letheridge's 
voice  was  also  high. 

The  brougham  was  throbbing  to  be  gone;  its  lamps 
looked  garish  in  the  wet  pearly  light;  they  made  the  pud- 
dles glitter  with  a  queerly  unreal  gleam. 

"The  rug  is  coming  out,"  Martin  said,  and  tucked  it  in. 

"That's  the  second  fib  to-night,"  she  told  him,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"I'd  outfib  the  Father  of  Lies  himself  to  get  the  tiniest 
bit  of  you." 

"I  wish  it  could  begin  all  over  again,  and  then  perhaps 
I'd  give  you  four,"  cried  Millicent. 

"Oh,  to  be  young!"  laughed  her  mother. 

The  gray  light  was  whitening,  a  fine  diizzle  of  rain  began 
to  fall.  In  the  wet  east  a  pale  gleam  of  sunshine  shone  for 
a  minute  across  the  gray,  then  disappeared. 

"  You  will  get  wet.     Go  in." 

"  I  can't  let  you  go,  Audrey — " 

"Good-bye!     Good-bye!" 

The  brougham  throbbed  loudly,  he  shut  the  door.  She 
leaned  suddenly  from  the  window. 

"I  wish  you  were  taking  me  home!" 

And  then  she  was  gone.  He  had  a  last  glimpse  of  her, 
her  face  shining  pale,  almost  unearthly  in  the  queer  gray 
light,  her  hair  forming  an  aureole. 

He  shivered  a  little. 

"She  looked  like  a  saint — an  angel." 

Then  he  remembered  her  smile,  her  words.  He 
thought,  contentedly: 

"Angels  don't  smile  like  that,  or  say  that  sort  of  thing." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

BEFORE  Audrey  reached  home  she  began  to  think  of 
her  mother,  and  of  retribution.  But  years  seemed 
to  stretch  between  her  exit  from  her  home  and  her  return. 
Susan's  anger  did  not,  in  anticipation,  alarm  her.  It 
seemed  to  her  now  that  nothing  in  all  the  world  could  have 
power  to  alarm  her,  save  only  Martin's  anger.  She  rested 
bravely  on  a  wonderful  new  sense  of  a  mighty  power  of 
protection  on  her  side. 

"It  really  is  a  pity  that  her  mother  is  so  impossible,  and 
keeps  her  shut  up  so  absurdly,"  Mrs.  Letheridge  observed, 
as  the  brougham  started  again  after  dropping  Audrey. 
"She  is  a  charming  little  thing." 

"Yes,  very  nice.  Mother,  do  you  admire  that  Mrs. 
Pat  ?  Mr.  Forsyth  seems  to,  a  good  deal." 

The  door  was  opened  to  Audrey  by  her  mother.  The 
light  of  the  dawn,  piercing  and  ruthless  in  its  fresh  youth, 
showed  her  face  gray,  lit  up  every  line,  drew  attention  to 
her  strained  eyes. 

"You've  come  back,"  she  said. 

Audrey  was  surprised. 

"Didn't  you  think  I  was  ever  coming  back,  Mother?" 
she  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly. 

"I  didn't  know,"  Susan  said,  in  a  dull  voice. 

"Mother,  I — I  know  it  was — I  know  that  you  think  it 
was  wrong  of  me  to  go,  but — but  I  had  to!     I  am  sorry  it 
had  to  be  like  that — "     Her  halting  words  ceased. 
16  235 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Do  you  want  anything  to  eat  ?"  Susan  asked. 

"No,  thank  you." 

"Then  you  will  go  straight  to  bed  ?" 

"Yes.  Mother,  why  did  you  sit  up  ?  I'm  so  sorry  you 
did.  You  must  be  tired  to  death." 

Then  Susan  said  something  that  shook  Audrey  back 
roughly  into  the  every-day  world. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  am — tired  to  death." 

She  said  it  in  the  same  dull  voice.  Audrey  had  never, 
in  all  her  life,  heard  her  mother  own  to  tiredness. 

"Mother,  dear!  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry."  Tears  were  in  her 
eyes.  "Mother,  did  my  going  hurt  you  so  much  ?" 

Susan  stared  at  her  curiously. 

"I  don't  think  I  was  surprised,"  she  said. 

"Then — you  will  forgive  me  now  ?" 

"Yes." 

Audrey  kissed  her  timidly. 

As  she  turned  to  go  up-stairs,  Susan  said: 

"Where  did  you  get  those  shoes,  Audrey  ?" 

"Oh,  they  are  Mrs.  Pat's!  I  forgot  to  change  them.  I 
lost  one  of  mine  on  my  way  there." 

She  had  a  sense  of  a  curious  stillness  behind  her;  she 
turned  to  find  her  mother  still  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs. 

"Aren't  you  coming  up  to  bed,  Mother  ?" 

Susan  began  to  ascend  the  staircase. 

"Poor  Mother,  how  tired  you  are!  Don't  you  wonder 
why  it  was  Mrs.  Pat  who  lent  me  the  shoes  ?" 

"No." 

"You  would  if  you  weren't  so  tired,  Mother.  It  was 
because  her's  were  the  only  shoes  which  would  fit  me. 
Isn't  it  curious!  Our  feet  are  exactly  the  same  size.  And 

236 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

she  was  so  kind  and  nice  about  it.  She  lent  me  stockings, 
too.  Every  one  was  so  kind." 

She  was  talking  because  her  mother's  silence  had  such  a 
curious  intenseness  about  it.  But  now  she  ceased. 

At  the  door  of  her  room  she  paused. 

"Good-night,  Mother,  and — and  thank  you  for  being  so 
good  about  my  disobedience." 

"It  wasn't  your  fault,"  Susan  said,  curtly. 

Audrey  blushed  hotly.     Could  her  mother  know  ? 

She  went  into  her  room,  and  mechanically  began  to  un- 
dress. But  the  clock  down  in  the  hall,  striking  eight,  found 
her  still  dreamily  brushing  her  hair  and  looking  out  at  the 
hills.  She  started  when  she  heard  the  hour  striking,  and 
jumped  up  with  guilty  haste.  She  had  promised  Martin 
to  go  straight  to  bed.  He  had  said: 

"You  are  to  go  straight  to  bed  when  you  get  home. 
You  were  tired  out  earlier  this  evening." 

How  nice  he  had  looked  when  he  said  it.  And  as  if  he 
meant  to  be  obeyed.  What  a  wonderful  world  it  was. 
To  think  that  she — she,  the  little  girl  who  laughed  in 
church  —  was  loved  by  Prince  Charming!  What  a 
world! 

Never  had  she  dreamed  that  so  much  happiness  could 
be  held  in  all  the  whole  earth,  and  now  it  was  held  by  her — 
by  her  and  Martin.  .  .  . 

She  leaned  again  from  the  window,  turning  up  her  face 
to  catch  the  pattering  raindrops. 

"Dear  old  sulky  hills,  you're  jealous!  jealous!  jealous! 
You're  all  gray  and  dull  and  misty,  because  all  the  joy  and 
the  sunshine  of  the  whole  world  is  mine.  No  one  can  take 
it  from  me.  And  oh,  dear  old  hills,  I'm  going  to  make 

237 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Martin's  life  like  that,  too — oh,  so  happy!     I  will  try  and 
try.  .  .  .  He  loves  me!  .  .  ." 

"You  are  up  already,  Audrey?"  Susan  looked  at  her 
from  the  doorway. 

Audrey  turned  and  stood,  hot  and  abashed,  at  a  loss. 

"I  haven't  been  to  bed  yet,"  she  said,  in  a  small  voice. 

"It's  five  minutes  to  nine.  How  long  will  you  be  before 
you  come  down  to  breakfast  ?" 

No  word  of  surprise,  no  word  of  reprimand.  The  un- 
usualness  of  it  made  Audrey  feel  more  abashed  than  ever. 
Yet  she  struggled  to  say  something  with  a  determination 
that  would  not  be  balked  by  timidity  or  shyness. 

Martin  had  told  her  she  was  to  go  to  bed.  She  gloried 
in  obeying  him,  although  she  had  never  felt  more  acutely 
awake  in  all  her  life. 

"I — I  would  like  to  go  to  bed  now,  Mother,  please." 

She  might  glory  in  her  obedience,  but  she  carried  it  into 
effect  like  a  naughty  child,  red-cheeked,  head  hanging  low. 

"Now  ?"  Susan  repeated.     "Very  well." 

She  left  the  room,  but  reappeared  the  next  minute  to  ask 
if  Audrey  would  like  breakfast  first.  When  she  had  gone 
Audrey  paused  a  moment  from  wonder  of  her  own  happiness. 

"  I  believe  mother  has  guessed.  Yet  how  could  she,  when 
I  didn't  dream  yesterday  ?  .  .  .  But  she  looks  so  tired  and 
sad,  and  that  would  be  because,  at  first,  she  would  not  like 
the  idea  of  my — caring — and  some  day — going  away.  .  . ." 

Undressing  was  suspended  awhile;  then  she  hurried  and 
sprang  into  bed. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  happy!"  In  an  ecstasy  of  joy  she  hugged 
the  pillow.  "So  happy!  So  happy!  And  I'll  never  go  to 
sleep,  never!  But  Martin  said  I  must  .  .  ." 

238 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Half  an  hour  later  the  sun,  breaking  through  the  misty 
gray  clouds,  shone  palely  in  on  her,  lying  fast  asleep.  There 
was  an  exquisite  peace  and  happiness  in  her  face,  but  she 
looked  pale,  as  if  she  had  been  through  many  deep  emotions. 

Susan,  entering  softly,  read  her  face  with  hungry  eyes. 
She  thought  she  understood.  To  her  it  seemed  that  now 
she  was  confronted  with  the  culmination  of  all  the  anxious 
years  of  doubt  through  which  she  had  lived  and  fought. 
She  had  fought  strenuously,  but  her  weapons  were  of  no 
use  now  in  face  of  the  happiness  that  had  come  to  Audrey 
through  her  meeting  with  that  other  woman.  That  hap- 
piness paralyzed  her;  it  seemed  to  do  away,  ruthlessly  and 
relentlessly,  with  all  the  time-worn  aphorisms  with  which 
she  had  fed  her  heart  and  her  conscience  for  twenty  years. 
And  yet,  as  she  stood  and  looked  upon  Audrey,  the  old 
fierce  sense  of  motherhood  surged  upon  her.  Her  breath 
came  hard;  she  clinched  her  hands  with  a  spasm  of  new 
courage;  battle  shone  in  her  eyes.  "She  is  mine!  Oh, 
God,  I  know  she  is  mine!  I  must  keep  her.  God,  help 
me  to  keep  her." 

As  she  went  softly  from  the  room  the  old  story  of 
Solomon's  wisdom  was  in  her  ears.  .  .  . 

"And  the  other  woman  said,  Nay;  but  the  living  is  my 
son,  and  the  dead  is  thy  son.  And  this  said,  No;  but  the 
dead  is  thy  son,  and  the  living  is  my  son.  .  .  ." 

"She  is  mine!  That  other  does  not  want  her.  She 
would  know  if — but  she  is  mine — " 

She  had  come  back  two  hours  later;  she  stood  beside  the 
bed,  a  little  white  satin  shoe  in  her  hand. 

"She  is  mine!  If  I  could  know — only  know — the 
truth—" 

239 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Suddenly  some  words  she  had  read  years  ago  flashed 
into  her  mind,  and  applied  themselves  poignantly: 

"...  uncertain  ways   unsafest  are, 
And  Doubt  a  greater  Mischief  than  Despair" 

She  did  not  remember  any  more;  she  did  not  remember 
their  context.  They  stood  out  now  piercingly  clear — they 
had  been  written  for  her.  She  saw  the  book  in  which  she 
had  come  across  them — a  little  old  book  bound  in  faded 
brown  calf.  She  smelled  the  faint  mustiness  of  the  yellowed 
pages.  She  remembered  the  long  s's  that  had  worried  h*_r. 
...  It  was  before  Audrey  had  been  born. . .  .  She  had  gone 
into  her  husband's  library  secretly,  like  a  guilty  thing,  and 
had  taken  books  from  the  shelves.  She  had  read  them, 
labored  through  them  in  secret,  striving  patiently  to  educate 
herself — to  make  herself  a  little  worthy  of  the  child  who  was 
coming.  .  .  .  After,  she  had  given  it  up.  The  doubt  that  had 
poisoned  her  life  had  absorbed  insidiously  the  mental  energy 
necessary  for  the  effort  at  self-culture.  And  now  all  she 
remembered  of  those  strenuous  readings  were  those  words: 

"...  uncertain  ways  unsafest  are, 
And  Doubt  a  greater  Mischief  than  Despair" 

She  crushed  the  shoe  in  her  hand;  her  heart  throbbed  with 
passionate  acquiescence — "Doubt  a  greater  Mischief  than 
Despair."  It  was  true.  ...  A  greater  Mischief.  .  .  .  She 
looked  down  at  the  shoe  she  held,  and  her  face  worked.  She 
pushed  out  her  foot,  and  studied  it  grimly.  Then  she  flung 
the  shoe  away;  she  drew  herself  erect.  "The  Fielding  wom- 
en have  small  feet,  too."  She  had  begun  to  fight  again. 

240 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

OHE  saw  him  coming  towards  her,  and  childishly,  in- 
O  excusably,  she  turned  and  ran  away.  In  among  the 
pine-trees  she  stopped,  and  hot  shame  brought  the  tears 
to  her  eyes.  Why  had  she  done  it  ?  He  must  have  seen 
her.  .  .  . 

Oh,  how  rude  and  foolish  and  hateful  she  was!  She 
had  not  dreamed  she  was  going  to  do  it,  and  here  it  was — 
done!  She  had  felt,  suddenly,  on  seeing  him,  that  she 
could  not — could  not — meet  him  just  then.  That  was  all. 
Now,  what  would  he  do  ?  Would  he  go  away,  and  never 
speak  to  her  again  ?  Her  heart  was  almost  bursting  with 
fear  and  shyness  and  compunction.  Or  would  he  come, 
and  look  at  her  angrily,  coldly,  as  he  had  done  last  night  ? 
She  trembled  as  she  waited. 

Then  she  heard  his  footfall  among  the  bracken;  he  was 
coming.  He  came,  walking  slowly.  He  smiled  as  he 
drew  near,  but  her  heart  sank  and  sank.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  feel  all  right  after  last  night?"  he  asked, 
quietly.  He  took  her  hand  as  he  spoke,  then  dropped  it. 

She  could  not  answer.  She  was  bewildered,  she  did  not 
understand.  There  was  a  stillness  about  his  face  not  usual 
to  it;  he  looked  grave  and  kind,  and  rather  tired. 

"Didn't  you  sleep  well  ?"  she  asked,  timidly. 

He  smiled. 

"I  didn't  want  to  give  up  my  thoughts,"  he  said.  "I 
241 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

haven't  been  to  bed.  Sit  here,  will  you  ?  Is  that  com- 
fortable ?" 

"Yes,  thank  you." 

It  was  the  felled  trunk  of  an  old  beech-tree  sawn  in 
half,  and  left  there  so  long  that  the  moss  had  crept 
over  it. 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  There  was  a  queer  silence  be- 
tween them.  She  glanced  at  him  nervously;  he  had  taken 
off  his  panama  hat,  and  was  twisting  and  squeezing  it  in 
his  hands.  She  recognized  the  habit  as  an  old  one — nine 
years  ago  he  used  to  do  that.  .  .  . 

She  broke  the  silence: 

"Are — are  you  cross  ?" 

He  turned  his  head  and  looked  down  at  her  very  ten- 
derly. 

"What  a  baby  you  are,"  he  said,  gently.  "No,  I'm  not 
cross.  What  made  you  think  that  ?" 

"You — you  are  different,  and — and  I  am  sorry  I — ran 
away.  I  didn't  mean  to — " 

"Why  did  you  do  it,  Audrey  ?" 

"I  don't  quite  know.  It  was  when  I  saw  you  coming, 
I — I  felt  I  couldn't — meet  you — and  I  ran  away,  before  I 
could  stop  myself — " 

He  summed  it  up,  inexorably: 

"You  were  frightened  of  me  again." 

"No,  I'm  not!  I  don't  know  why  it  was.  Is  that  why 
you  are  different — Martin  ?" 

The  shy  little  "Martin"  made  him  smile  down  at  her; 
then  his  face  grew  grave  again. 

"I'm  disappointed,"  he  said,  as  gently  as  before.  "And 
I've  got  to  be  very  careful,  and  hold  myself  well  in  hand. 
I'm  not  going  to  be  a  brute  and  take  by  force  what  you 

242 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

don't  want  to  give.  That's  why,"  he  finished,  simply,  "I 
only  shook  hands." 

She  sat  and  thought  about  it,  in  a  whirl  of  conflicting 
feelings. 

"I  want  to  pick  that  buttercup,"  she  said,  presently. 
"You  stay  there." 

She  picked  it,  then  stood  hesitating,  rubbing  it  up  and 
down  against  her  cheek.  Martin  was  watching  her. 

"Look  at  that  greenfinch,"  she  said,  in  a  funny  little 
way,  "please  look  at  him,  Martin." 

He  looked  obediently. 

The  color  was  coming  and  going  in  her  cheeks,  her  lips 
were  very  serious,  but  her  eyes  were  soft.  She  crept  up  be- 
hind him  where  he  sat  on  the  tree-trunk;  two  gentle  arms 
went  round  his  neck.  "I'm  not  frightened,"  came  a  little 
whisper.  And  then  a  soft  little  kiss,  so  light  and  shy  that 
it  was  a  memory  almost  before  it  was  given,  fell  upon 
the  top  of  his  head. 

He  had  been  talking  about  his  home.  She  watched  his 
face  kindle  as  he  spoke  of  it. 

"You  love  your  home  very  much,"  she  said,  her  mind 
back  in  the  old  time  when  even  then,  as  a  child,  she  had 
seen  how  dear  his  home  was  to  him. 

"Yes,  every  stick  and  stone,"  he  said,  simply.  "And  so 
will  you,  very  soon." 

"It's  so  big,  Martin." 

"  But  so  cosey,  sweetheart.  I  can  see  you  there.  You've 
got  to  love  it,  Audrey." 

"Martin?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  very  ignorant,  and  not  used  to — to  people,  and  all 
243 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

that  sort  of  thing.  I  don't  think  you  realize  what  a  very 
quiet  life  I  have  led." 

He  drew  her  closer. 

"Yes,  I  do,  you  poor  little  soul.  Oh,  Audrey,  you'll 
make  the  dearest  little  chatelaine!" 

"But  one  has  to  know  about  things — all  sorts  of  things," 
she  said,  with  strong  self-distrust. 

"Marcia  will  help  you,  dear." 

Her  face  brightened. 

"So  she  will!" 

"And  the  governor  will  adore  you.  He's  such  a  dear 
old  man,  Audrey,  you're  sure  to  love  him." 

"Is  he  like  you?" 

"Very  much,  people  say,  only  his  hair  is  white,  you 
know,  and  his  temper  isn't  half  so  good!  You'll  have  to 
help  me  in  some  alterations  I  want  to  make  about  the 
place.  And  there's  a  row  of  cottages.  People  come  quite 
a  long  way  to  see  them,  they're  so  picturesque,  but  they'll 
have  to  come  down — 

"Oh,  and  will  you  put  horrid  little  new  red  houses 
instead  ?" 

He  laughed. 

"No;  you  shall  help  me  to  make  the  new  ones  quite 
plain  and  decent.  My  father  has  been  talking  lately  of 
handing  all  that  sort  of  thing  over  to  me,  and  there's  a  lot 
I  want  to  do.  I've  no  end  of  plans.  Barker's  a  decent 
sort,  but  he  hasn't  much  in  the  way  of  brains;  he  wants 
looking  after.  That  sort  of  thing  won't  bore  you,  will  it, 
Audrey  ?" 

"Nothing  that  interests  you  will  bore  me,"  she  said, 
earnestly.  "Don't,  Martin!  I'm  serious —  You  will  lend 
me  books  all  about  drains,  and  building  cottages,  and 

244 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

about  landlords  and  tenants,  won't  you  ?     And  I'll  study 
them— 

"Oh,  you  darling!  I  can't  help  it;  you  shouldn't  look 
at  me  like  that.  You  and  drains!  No,  I'll  teach  you  all 
you  need  know.  Remember  how  I  used  to  teach  you 
years  ago  ?" 

"Yes;  and  you  upset  my  decorous  mind  by  declaring 
that  immaculate  people  were  always  good,  and  therefore 
horrid." 

— who  can  tell  the  mischief  which  the  very  virtuous 
do?'"  he  quoted,  lazily.  "Take  you  for  an  awful  ex- 
ample. You  are  very  virtuous,  and  look  at  the  mischief 
you  do!  That  poor  beggar  of  a  Townshend  came  down 
to  breakfast  this  morning  as  glum  as  if  he'd  got  the  tooth- 
ache! And  for  some  unaccountable  reason  he  seems  to 
want  to  bite  my  head  off.  A  personage  like  him,  too! 
Why,  he's  the  stop-gap  of  quite  a  lot  of  the  papers.  When 
they've  a  bit  that  must  be  filled,  and  nothing  to  fill  it  with, 
they  use  him,  and  how  many  blots  he  makes  on  every 
sheet  of  paper,  or  how  many  times  he  frowns  during  one 
of  his  speeches,  and  you — the  virtuous  you — have  given 
him  mental  toothache!" 

"I  haven't,  and  you  know  that  isn't  what  Thackeray 
meant.  And  you  are  very  foolish,  Martin." 

"M — Martin.  You  may  call  me  what  names  you  like, 
so  long  as  you  tack  that  dear  little  M — Martin  on  at  the 
end.  Audrey,  you're  very  tiresome.  In  books  it  never 
happens — the  hero's  ring,  the  one  he  wears  on  his  little 
finger,  always  fits  the  heroine.  Now  look!  It  would  take 
in  all  your  fingers.  I'm  coming  home  with  you  now  to  see 
your  mother;  then  I'm  going  to  tell  Marcia;  then  I'm 
going  home  to  tell  my  father,  and  I  shall  bring  a  ring  of 

245 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

my  mother's  back  for  you.  I  know  he'll  want  me  to. 
She  used  always  to  wear  it.  I  can  remember  it  when  I 
was  a  little  chap.  Her  hands  were  like  yours,  I  think — 
little  soft  thin  hands.  .  .  .  It's  pearls — pearls  suit  you — and 
it's  very  quaint.  You'll  like  it,  won't  you  ?" 

"I  shall  love  it." 

"And  then  afterwards  I'll  buy  you  others — grander  ones. 
And  I'll  take  you  to  town,  and  show  you  all  the  sights." 

"Theatres  and  concerts  and  picture-galleries?" 

"Yes,  tons  of 'em!" 

"Oh,  Martin!" 

"Oh,  Audrey!" 

"Martin?" 

"Yes,  sweet." 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something.     Don't  look  at  me." 

"My  eyes  won't  turn  away.  You  must  shut  them  for 
me." 

She  pressed  his  lids  down  gently. 

When  she  took  her  hands  away,  he  looked  at  her  again. 

"You  must  do  it  once  more,"  he  coaxed. 

"Promise  you  will  keep  them  shut,  then." 

"Very  well." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"It  isn't  fair,"  he  ejaculated,  "to  shut  me  out  from 
Paradise  for  such  ages." 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something  very  important,  only  I — 
only — " 

"Ask  me,  dear,"  he  said,  in  a  different  tone. 

"I  want  to  know — oh,  Martin,  when  did  you  first — first 
begin  to — to  like  me  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

AUDREY  had  elected  to  tell  her  mother  herself.  For 
/~\  hours  she  had  been  striving  to  gain  sufficient  courage 
to  do  so.  Now  the  long  shadows  of  evening  had  merged 
into  the  one  great  dusky  shadow  of  early  night,  and  still 
she  had  not  told.  It  was  such  a  beautiful  thing;  it  was 
so  hard  to  put  it  into  words.  And  she  shrank  from  any 
discussion.  .  .  . 

The  little  young  moon  looked  down  at  her  as  she  walked 
up  and  down  the  garden;  the  stars  looked  down,  too.  .  .  . 
Oh,  what  a  beautiful,  beautiful  world  it  was!  The  moon 
and  the  stars  seemed  so  near;  once  they  had  been  aloof, 
wonderful,  coldly  lovely,  but  now  they  were  near — all  beau- 
tiful things  seemed  near  now — and  kind.  .  .  . 

She  went  into  the  house. 

"Amelia,  where  is  mother?" 

"Up  in  her  room." 

Amelia's  tone  was  cross.     Audrey  paused. 

"Are  you  tired  ?"  she  asked,  gently. 

"I'm  always  tired  now,"  Amelia  said,  despondently. 

"Let  me  put  those  plates  away  for  you." 

Amelia  stood  and  watched  her. 

"My  fingers  are  all  thumbs,  too,  lately,"  she  said.  "If 
it  wasn't  for  the  stray  cats  who  get  into  the  kitchen,  Susan 
'ud  be  always  at  me  for  the  things  I  break." 

Audrey  winced;  she  did  not  seek  elucidation  upon 
247 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Amelia's  somewhat  vague  speech;   she  preferred   not  to 
have  her  petty  deceits  put  into  plain  words. 

"You  haven't  told  me  a  word  about  the  ball  or  any- 
thing," Amelia  grumbled.  "Every  one's  getting  too  high 
and  mighty  for  poor  and  humble  friends  nowadays." 

"I  told  you  all  I  could  remember,"  Audrey  said,  pa- 
tiently. Lately  Amelia  had  developed  a  habit  of  whining 
at  fortune  which  was  very  trying  to  the  nerves;  she  had 
grown  suspicious  and  unjust,  too,  and  was  showing  herself 
in  her  most  unattractive  aspect. 

"You  think  I  don't  know  what's  going  on,"  she  re- 
sumed. "Oh,  you  needn't  blush  like  that!  I'm  sure  it's 
only  natural;  but  you  might  confide  in  poor  old  Amelia, 
who'd  sympathize,  though  Susan  is  my  cousin,  and  her  no 
relation  at  all.  I  do  believe  there's  more  up  than  we  know 
about,  for  all  you  look  so  innocent  and  speak  so  soft. 
They  do  say  a  mother's  heart  can  never  be  deceived,  and 
for  all  her  wickedness  she's  a  mother,  so  p'r'aps  it's  from 
her  it's  come.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  far  it's  true 
about  a  mother's  heart,  never  having  been  one  myself, 
through  man's  perfidy,  and  so  constant  I  never  could 
think  of  another — "  Amelia  dissolved  into  tears. 

Audrey,  who  had  grown  into  the  way  of  dreaming  lately, 
woke  at  sight  of  her  tears,  and  came  across  to  her. 

"Sit  down,  and  I  will  make  you  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  said, 
knowing  that  tea  was  Amelia's  unfailing  panacea  for  all  ills. 

Amelia  wiped  her  eyes,  but  refused  the  tea. 

"Tea  cannot  heal  a  wounded  heart,"  she  said. 

"Amelia,  don't  talk  as  if  we  are  unkind  to  you." 

'  'Tisn't  you,  dearie,  but  there's  some  who  are  that  hard 
they  never  can  understand  the  weakness  of  a  sensitive 
nature,  though  living  a  lie  day  by  day  themselves.  I  get 

248 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

thinking  of  old  times  lately  a  lot,  somehow,  and  it  makes 
me  miserable.  I  think  I  will  have  a  cup  of  tea,  after  all, 
but  I'll  make  it  myself.  I  know  just  how  long  I  like  it  to 
stand  and  how  much  tea  to  put  in.  Tea's  wonderfully 
sustaining,  when  all's  said  and  done." 

Audrey  left  her  and  went  up  to  her  mother's  room. 
Susan  was  standing  looking  out  of  the  window.  Her  face, 
as  she  turned  it  to  Audrey  on  her  entrance,  was  black 
against  the  moonlit  night. 

"Mother,"  Audrey  said,  "I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Susan  was  silent.  Audrey  searched  her  face  in  vain;  it 
was  too  dark  for  her  to  see  any  expression. 

"  It's  very  difficult  to — tell,"  she  faltered,  childishly. 

"Then  get  it  over  quickly."     Susan's  voice  was  harsh. 

"Mr.  Jocelyn  loves  me,"  Audrey  said,  in  a  curiously 
prim  little  voice,  "and  I  love  him." 

"Is  that  all  ?"  Susan  said. 

"All?" 

In  Audrey's  dazed  echo  of  the  word  there  was  a  revela- 
tion. Susan  moved  suddenly  forward,  closer  to  her. 

"Is  that  why  you  have  looked  so  happy  ?  Is  that  why 
you  disobeyed  me,  and  went  to  the  ball  ?  Was  it  of  him 
you  were  thinking  all  the  while  ?  Was  it  ?  Tell  me,  child! 
Tell  me,  quickly!"  She  had  laid  hold  of  Audrey's  arm; 
her  fingers  gripped  so  tightly  that  they  hurt  her  flesh. 

"Yes,  Mother,"  Audrey  said. 

That  was  all,  but  the  moonlight  shone  on  her  face,  and 
Susan  read  it  aright.  She  made  a  queer  little  noise  in  her 
throat,  and  suddenly  put  her  arms  about  the  slim  figure, 
and  held  her  close. 

"Oh,  Mother,  you're — not  angry  ?     You  are  glad  ?" 

"Yes,  dear,  I  am  very  glad,"  Susan  said. 
249 


CHAPTER  XXX 

UP  in  her  room  Audrey  sat  and  read. 
It  was  afternoon  and  the  room  was  very  hot.  The 
breeze  that  came  in  playful  bursts  from  the  south  did  not 
reach  her  window.  Audrey's  brows  were  drawn  into  a 
faint  frown  of  utter  seriousness,  her  lips  were  closely 
shut. 

"After  the  gutter  has  been  laid  to  fit  the  chimney,  a  lead 
'flashing,'  about  eleven  inches  broad  or  so,  has  to  be  put 
up  each  side  of  the  chimney;  its  length — taking  the  chim- 
ney at  two  feet  thick — will  be  about  two  feet  ten  inches, 
or  more,  according  to  the  pitch  of  the  roof." 

She  looked  up  from  the  little  faded  book,  keeping  her 
finger  on  the  page  she  had  been  reading. 

"After  the  gutter  has  been  laid  .  .  ." 

Was  Martin  with  his  father  now  ?  What  would  he  say  ? 
How  would  he  ever  understand  Martin's  wanting  her — 
her — since  she  could  never  understand  it  herself?  .  .  . 
Only  the  tops  of  the  hills  were  in  the  sunlight  now — dear 
old  hills!  It  was  beautiful  to  talk,  silently,  to  the  hills — to 
talk  of  Martin — Martin — Martin.  The  birds  sang  of  him, 
too.  The  bees  buzzed  of  him.  Dear,  old,  warm,  beauti- 
ful world.  .  .  .  Oh,  what  a  frivolous  mind  she  had!  She 
would  never,  never  be  a  fit  wife  for  Martin.  .  .  . 

"It  bends  round  the  chimney  a  little  at  the  bottom,  and 
at  the  top  goes  up  to  the  back  of  the  chimney-gutter, 

250 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

whatever  portion  of  the  lead  flashing  projects  above  the 
sole,  or  bottom  of  the  gutter,  being  cut  away." 

Down  in  the  road  children's  voices  laughed;  a  cart 
rumbled  by;  a  blue  butterfly  flew  past  the  window,  close 
to  the  studious  head  bent  so  inexorably  over  the  faded 
book. 

Audrey  sat  and  read. 

She  heard  all  the  sounds — the  sounds  that  held  a  subtle 
charm,  that  called  to  her  to  put  away  the  dry  old  book 
and  come  out.  She  saw  the  gay  little  butterfly,  and  im- 
pulsively threw  after  it  a  kiss.  "Take  it  to  Martin,"  she 
whispered,  and,  blushing,  returned  to  her  reading. 

"This  chimney-flashing  is  put  into  a  chasing,  as  de- 
scribed for  chimney-flashings  in  chapter  iv.  After  the 
flashings  are  on,  a  lead  gutter  has  to  be  laid  along  the 
back  of  the  chimney.  The  lead  for  gutters  so  situated 
may  be  of  various  breadths,  according  to  the  pitch  of  the 
roof,  and  the  way  in  which  the  carpenter  has  been  directed 
to  lay  the  wood." 

The  hot  afternoon  wore  on.  Laboriously  she  tried  to 
concentrate  her  mind  on  gutters  and  chimneys.  She  would 
not  take  her  book  out  to  read,  for  fear  of  distraction.  She 
was  very  much  in  earnest,  very  serious.  She  had  found 
the  book  in  an  old  box  up  in  an  attic;  she  had  gone  there 
to  look  for  some  book  that  would  be  able  to  teach  her  some- 
thing about  building  cottages.  She  did  so  want  to  under- 
stand when  Martin  should  talk  to  her  about  the  building 
of  new  cottages  for  his  tenants.  She  was  so  ignorant! 

With  head  bent  low  she  sat  and  read. 

A  delicate  whiff  came  in  at  the  window,  elusive,  laden 
with  dreams.  .  .  .  One  day  Martin  had  picked  her  a  great 
bunch  of  honeysuckle.  He  had  refused  to  let  her  pick  it 
17  251 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

for  herself.  He  had  said,  "You  sha'n't  tear  those  poor 
little  hands."  And  she  had  been  glad  to  let  him  gather  it; 
yet  always,  before  then,  the  gathering  had  been  half  the 
joy.  .  .  .  There  was  honeysuckle  now,  down  in  the  hedge 
that  bordered  the  road:  if  she  were  to  lean  out  she  would 
see  it — she  would  see  that  tall  piece,  all  pink  and  cream, 
that  waved  triumphantly  above  the  reach  of  passers-by. 
But  Martin  would  be  able  to  reach  it,  Martin  was  so 
tall.  One  day  he  had-  helped  her  over  those  difficult 
stepping-stones  down  by  Farney  Wood.  She  was  such 
a  coward;  but  when  he  held  her  hand  she  was  not  afraid. 
He  had  said:  "I'd  like  to  pick  you  up  and  carry  you 
across."  Well,  now — perhaps — another  time.  .  .  . 

"After  the  gutter  has  been  laid  to  fit  the  chimney  .  .  ." 
She  did  not  know  even  that  yet!  How  slow  she  was! 
Why  couldn't  she  keep  her  mind  upon  the  subject  of 
chimneys  and  gutters  ?  Long  ago  Martin  had  helped  her 
with  her  lessons.  Perhaps  he  would  help  her  with  this, 
and  then  she  would  understand  all  about  flashings  and 
chasings  and  gutters  and  things.  But  she  must  try  to 
learn  more  of  it  by  herself — she  must  do  something  to 
begin  to  fit  herself  to  be  his  wife. 

"After  the  gutter  has  been  laid  to  fit  the  chimney — the 
chimney,  chimney,  chimney  .  .  ."  Oh,  what  a  glorious 
world  it  was!  Sooty  old  chimneys! 

Was  the  sunshine  as  happy  as  she  was  ?  Could  it  be  ? 
Why  hadn't  Martin  loved  one  of  the  beautiful,  accom- 
plished girls  he  must  have  been  always  meeting  ?  Sup- 
pose his  father  refused  to  welcome  her?  But  Martin  had 
been  so  sure.  Only — only — sometimes  it  seemed  almost 
impossible  that  she  could  go  on  being  quite  so  happy. 
She  and  Martin!  .  .  .  Dear  little  pinky-creamy  honey- 

252 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

suckle!  there  it  was,  waving  to  her  gently.  She  would 
not  let  Martin  pick  it  when  he  came  back.  She  loved 
honeysuckle.  She  loved  everything!  Everything  was 
beautiful!  .  .  . 

The  clock  in  the  hall  down-stairs  struck  four  wheezy 
notes.  Guiltily  she  turned  from  the  window,  hastily  she 
picked  up  her  book.  All  in  a  conscience-stricken  whirl  of 
flurry. 

"After  the  gutter  has  been  laid  to  fit  the  chimney,  a 
lead  'flashing' about  eleven  inches  broad  or  so,  has  to  be 
put  up  each  side — "  Audrey  read. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

HILARY  JOCELYN  sat  looking  out  on  the  little  gar- 
den that  had  been  so  beloved  by  his  wife.  Here 
there  grew,  in  their  season,  all  the  sweet  old-fashioned 
flowers  she  had  loved  so  dearly.  It  was  sheltered  here, 
and  this  one  spot  seemed  always  to  him  to  gather  more 
sweetness  than  all  the  rest  of  the  gardens.  He  sat  near 
the  old  fountain  that  she  had  loved,  and  frowned  in 
thought.  He  was  a  fine  old  man;  the  upper  part  of  his 
face  was  wide  and  kindly,  but  his  somewhat  heavy  chin 
and  thin  mouth  denoted  more  than  strength  of  will;  they 
spoke  of  obstinacy.  His  blue  eyes  now  were  steely;  they 
looked  much  as  Martin's  had  on  that  night  of  the  ball, 
when  he  had  frightened  Audrey  with  his  cold  anger.  In  his 
right  hand  he  held  a  letter,  and  it  was  scrawled  in  the  bad 
handwriting  of  Professor  Forbes.  His  gaze  rested  on  a 
great  bed  of  clove  carnations,  but  he  did  not  see  them;  his 
thoughts  were  back  in  the  past,  and,  as  he  stared  before 
him,  the  expression  of  his  face  altered,  the  anger  was  soft- 
ened by  a  great  sadness.  His  wife  had  been  dead  for 
nearly  twenty-one  years,  but  there  were  times  still  when 
he  missed  her  as  sharply  as  he  had  done  in  those  first 
months  of  terrible  grief. 

Presently  he  rose,  and  entered  by  a  long  window  the 
room  that  had  been  hers  from  the  moment  she  came  to 
his  house,  so  shy  and  young,  and  had  exclaimed  with 

254 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

pleasure  at  the  pretty,  long  room  opening  onto  the  little 
shut-in  patch  of  garden.  She  had  been  fond  of  sweet 
scents;  she  had  filled  jars  and  bowls  with  pot-pourri  and 
lavender,  and  their  faint  sweet  perfumes  clung  about  the 
room  still.  She  had  loved  delicate,  pretty  colors,  and  the 
room  was  furnished  in  faint  pinks  and  blues  and  white, 
faded  now,  and  wearing  an  air  of  pathetic  beauty. 

The  water-color  paintings  on  the  wall  harmonized  with 
the  rest  of  the  room;  there  was  nothing  sad,  nothing 
gloomy,  nothing  grand;  they  were  all  little  sunny  bits  of 
landscape,  of  gardens,  and  a  few  were  portraits  of  pretty 
children.  The  room  was  very  typical;  it  breathed  very 
sweetly  of  the  little  dead  girl-wife  who  had  been  so  happy 
there. 

When  Martin  reached  the  house  and  heard  that  his 
father  was  in  there,  he  was  glad.  He  felt  that  he  could 
speak  of  Audrey  better  there  than  anywhere  else — that  his 
father  would  receive  his  news  with  more  sympathy  there. 
His  childhood's  memories  were  strongly  associated  with 
that  room.  He  could  remember  a  convalescence  spent  on 
the  blue  and  pink  sofa,  with  a  dainty  figure  in  white  sitting 
beside  him,  reading  aloud  from  a  book.  It  was  a  red  book 
with  gold  letters  on  it,  but  he  could  not  remember  what  it 
had  been  about.  Afterwards  the  figure  in  white  had  lain 
on  the  sofa  while  he  had  played  about  the  room — hushed 
games,  so  that  his  mother  should  not  be  disturbed.  Then 
had  come  a  time  when  he  would  peep  through  the  windows 
at  the  blue  and  pink  sofa,  with  a  dreadful  unmanly  longing 
to  cry,  and  each  time  would  go  through  a  fresh  disappoint- 
ment because  the  sofa  was  empty.  Yet  he  must  have 
known  it  would  be  empty;  they  had  told  him  that  his 
mother  had  been  taken  away  to  heaven.  For  many  nights 

255 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

and  mornings  he  had  refused  stubbornly  to  say  his  prayers, 
and  had  shocked  his  nurse  by  his  opinion,  curtly  given, 
that  it  was  pretty  mean  of  God  to  take  his  mother  when 
he  had  plenty  of  angels  up  there  already. 

Since  then  he  had  often  sat  in  the  room  with  his  father. 
It  was  there  that  he  had  heard  the  stories  of  his  mother's 
goodness,  her  beauty,  her  sweetness;  there  that  his  father's 
gravest,  deepest  talks  to  him  in  his  boyhood  had  taken 
place.  So  now  he  entered  quietly. 

His  father  was  standing  by  the  mantel-shelf;  he  turned 
as  Martin  came  in.  He  was  a  very  outspoken,  direct  sort 
of  man.  He  said,  without  any  greeting: 

"Is  it  true  that  you  have  been  carrying  on  a  flirtation 
with  a  daughter  of  John  Fielding's  ?" 

Martin's  face  paled  a  little;  he  held  his  head  high  as  he 
answered : 

"No.  But  I  love  her,  and  I  have  asked  her  to  be  my 
wife,  and  she  has  said  she  will." 

There  was  a  pause.     Martin  broke  it  in  a  different  tone. 

"Dad,  who  has  been  interfering?  I've  come  to  tell 
you—" 

"When  it's  all  settled." 

"I've  come  at  once.  It  was  only  the  night  before 
last—" 

"It  doesn't  matter  when  it  was.     You  can't  marry  her." 

Martin  had  never  heard  this  tone  from  his  father. 
Angry,  blustering,  impatient  tones  he  would  have  under- 
stood, but  this  new  voice,  hard  and  cold,  puzzled  him. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  you  mean,  Father  ?" 

"I  mean  that  I  will  never  give  my  consent  to  your  mar- 
rying a  daughter  of  John  Fielding's.  The  man  was  a  cad 
and  a  scoundrel.  The  blood  is  bad.  He  spoiled  the  last 

256 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

year  of  your  mother's  life.  I  believe  he  killed  her.  I'm 
not  saying  it  heedlessly.  As  God  hears  me,  I  believe  John 
Fielding  to  have  killed  my  wife.  For  twenty-one  years  I 
have  believed  it,  and  I  will  never  have  a  daughter  of  his  in 
this  house." 

Martin's  face  was  white  now,  but  he  was  very  quiet. 

"What  did  he  do  ?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"We  met  him  in  a  country-house.  He  had  just  married 
badly,  and  had  come  to  say  good-bye  to  his  friends  before 
going  to  America.  He  had  loved  your  mother.  He  was 
vindictive,  spiteful — always  was,  as  a  boy.  He  dragged 
out  an  old  story — it  was  ten  years  old — nothing  bad,  but 
not  creditable  to  me.  I  had  been  a  young  fool — got  into 
the  clutches  of  an  adventuress — I  needn't  go  into  that. 
He  told  your  mother.  Afterwards  he  wrote  to  me — a  cant- 
ing, lying  letter — from  America;  he  said  he  hadn't  meant 
to  tell  her.  That  doesn't  matter.  He  told  her,  and  he 
dated  the  story  five  years  too  late." 

"Good  God!" 

"Two  years  after  I  had  married  her." 

Martin  nodded. 

"  She  didn't  believe  him."  For  a  moment  his  voice  shook; 
he  walked  the  length  of  the  room,  then  came  back  to  the 
mantel-shelf.  "She  came  to  me,  and  asked  me  if  it  were 
true.  She  laughed.  I  told  her  it  was.  It  killed  her." 

"She  didn't  mention  the  time  ?" 

"No.     At  the  last,  the  day  before  she  died,  it  came  out." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"You — never  guessed  ?" 

"No.  I  thought  that  she  was  hard  on  me,  although  she 
was  always  gentle,  but  I  didn't  understand  women.  She 
was  so  pure,  so  delicate —  He  stopped,  abruptly. 

257 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Martin  was  silent,  his  mind  working  over  the  bitter 
tragedy  that  a  word  could  have  averted. 

"Now  you  know  why  I  will  never  have  a  daughter  of 
his  in  this  house.  He  was  drowned  a  few  months  later, 
otherwise  I  should  have  killed  him." 

Martin  said: 

"Yes, "and was  silent  awhile.  He  added:  "His  daugh- 
ter—  But  Hilary  politely  interrupted. 

"There  is  nothing  to  say.  No  praises  of  her  will  move 
me.  On  the  day  you  marry  her,  I  disinherit  you.  I  shall 
make  a  new  will,  leaving  all  this  to  your  cousin,  Harry 
Jocelyn." 

"It  isn't  fair,  Dad!  When  you  are  calmer  you  must  see 
it!  You  have  always  been  fair.  You  pride  yourself  on  it. 
God  knows  I  sympathize  with  you.  But  Audrey  is  as  good 
and  pure  as  my  mother  was.  I  tell  you  I  love  her  with  all 
my  heart  and  soul.  And  she  loves  me — 

"You  don't  know  what  love  is!  A  boy-and-girl  affair. 
If  you  knew,  you  would  know  too  that  it's  of  no  use  ap- 
pealing to  me.  I  was  a  man  of  thirty-five  when  I  married 
your  mother.  You're  just  a  boy — " 

"I'm  not.  And,  if  you  persist,  it  means  that  we'll  never 
see  each  other  again — you  and  I.  I  shall  work  for  her; 
I  won't  give  her  up,  and  she  won't  give  me  up." 

"And  your  home?" 

A  spasm  crossed  his  face,  he  set  his  teeth  hard  for  a 
moment. 

"She  is  worth  even  that." 

Hilary  Jocelyn  stood  a  minute  in  silence;  his  eyes  fell 
on  a  picture  of  his  wife,  painted  in  the  first  years  of  her 
marriage.  The  pretty,  girlish  face  looked  out  from  the 
canvas,  with  wide,  joyous  eyes;  her  mouth  was  smiling; 

258 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

there  was  a  dimple  in  her  pink  cheek.  Suddenly,  with  a 
vividness  that  blinded  him  to  all  else,  he  saw  her  face  as  it 
had  grown  to  look  in  that  last  year:  he  saw  the  pallor,  the 
thin  cheek,  the  tired  eyes.  .  .  .  He  turned  suddenly  to  the 
little  table  beside  him,  he  groped  as  if  he  could  not  see,  till 
his  hand  fell  upon  the  ivory-and-gold  Bible  that  she  had 
read  from  every  day. 

As  he  picked  it  up,  a  few  dried  rose  leaves  fluttered  to  the 
floor.  His  hand  shook,  but  his  voice  rang  out,  strong  and 
firm: 

"I  swear,  before  God,  here,  on  her  Bible,  that  on  the 
day  you  wed  a  daughter  of  John  Fielding's,  you  cease  to 
be  my  son,  and  all  this  property  shall  go  to  your  cousin, 
Harry  Jocelyn." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

SHE  met  Martin  as  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  gray  cot- 
tage.    She  saw  a  difference  in  him  at  once;   it  seemed 
to  her  that  in  some  indefinable  way  he  had  aged.     But  her 
heart  sang  because  he  had  come  back,  and  because  she 
could  read  his  welcome  in  his  face. 

"You  have  been  travelling  too  much,"  she  said,  with  her 
delightful  little  assumption  of  motherliness,"you  are  tired." 

He  smiled. 

"I'm  tired  out  with  longing  for  you." 

"Oh!" 

"Audrey,  you  didn't  run  away  this  time  when  you  saw 
me." 

"The  future  mistress  of ' Hurstonleigh '  is  obliged  to  be 
more  dignified,"  she  rejoined,  demurely. 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  glanced  up  into  his  face. 

"Martin,  what  is  it?  Ah,  I  know!  Your  father  does 
not  think  I  am  good  enough  for  you.  Is  that  it  ?" 

"No.  Not  in  the  way  you  mean.  Come  in  here,  I  want 
to  tell  you  something." 

She  followed  him  through  the  clinging  brambles,  till 
they  reached  the  side  of  the  stream  where  they  had  sat 
before  now. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him;  her  whole  figure,  as  she 
stood  waiting,  expressed  suspense. 

260 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Tell  me  quickly,"  she  said. 

He  looked  down  into  her  face  hungrily. 

"Tell  me  first  that  you  love  me,  Audrey!  Say  it  again. 
Say  it  now." 

"You  know  I  do,  Martin." 

"But  I  want  to  hear  you  say  it!  I  want  to  know  how 
much  you  love  me.  Tell  me  that." 

"I  can't!  How  could  I  ?  My  love  is  me — myself — oh, 
Martin,  I  am  frightened!" 

His  face  altered. 

"I'm  a  selfish  brute,"  he  said,  passing  his  hand  across 
his  forehead.  "I  know  you  love  me.  But  I  have  bad 
news  for  you — very  bad  news.  Audrey,  I  know  you  won't 
fail  me.  Dear,  when  I  went  to  my  father  that  old  fool  of 
a  Professor  had  already  written  to  him,  telling  him  his 
suspicions  about  you  and  me.  It  was  a  bad  beginning;  not 
that  it  matters,  I  think.  My  father — it's  difficult  to  tell 
you — your  father  did  something — he  and  my  father  quar- 
relled badly.  .  .  .  Audrey,  he  has  refused  to  receive  you, 
he  has  sworn  that  on  the  day  I  marry  you  he  disinherits 
me!" 

There  was  a  long  silence.  She  stared  down  at  the 
stream,  which  was  still  laughing  and  gurgling  over  the 
happiness  in  the  world — it  was  still  flecked  with  warm  little 
patches  of  sunlight;  overhead,  in  the  trees,  birds  rustled 
and  hopped  and  sang.  Only  she  was  dead.  She  felt 
vaguely  that  now  she  knew  what  it  was  like  to  die.  She 
was  very  cold. 

Somehow  she  understood  at  once  the  irrevocability  of 
the  vow  Martin's  father  had  sworn;  no  thought  of  his  re- 
lenting crossed  her  mind.  She  was  sorry  for  Martin,  too, 
only,  somehow,  she  felt  so  numb  and  dull.  .  .  . 

261 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"I  am  very  cold,"  she  said,  in  a  quiet  little  voice. 

His  arms  were  round  her  at  once,  his  eager  voice  in  her 
ear. 

"Darling,  don't  look  like  that!  After  all,  we  shall  be 
very  happy.  It's  a  lot  to  ask  you  to  do — to  take  a  chap 
who  has  his  way  to  make  in  the  world,  but  you'll  do  it, 
won't  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  in  the  same 
expressionless  voice. 

"Why,  don't  you  understand  ?  Hurstonleigh  will  go  to 
my  cousin  Harry.  But  I  have  two  hundred  a  year  from 
my  mother.  We  could  live  on  that  just  for  a  little  while, 
till  I  can  give  you  more.  Could  you  do  it  for  me,  Audrey  ? 
Could  you  live  a  hard  life,  a  poor  life,  for  me  ?  Do  you 
think  I'm  worth  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

His  arms  tightened  about  her. 

"My  darling!  My  brave  darling!  I  knew  you  would! 
Oh,  Audrey,  I  will  work  for  you!  I'm  not  worth  what 
you're  giving  me,  but  at  least  I'll  try  to  be!  Nothing  will 
be  too  hard  for  me  when  we  are  married — 

"  But  we  are  not  going  to  be  married,  Martin." 

His  arms  slackened. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

She  began  to  tremble;  she  put  up  her  hand  to  her 
head. 

"I — I  feel  so  muddled.  Don't  be  angry,  Martin.  I'm 
very  foolish,  I  know — " 

"Foolish!  Angry!  Dear,  you  must  be  muddled  to 
think  such  awful  things.  You're  just  the  little  Audrey  of 
years  ago.  Tell  me  what  you  don't  understand,  and  I 
will  try  to  explain." 

262 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"You  said  that  if  you  marry  me  you  lose  your  home 
forever." 

"Yes." 

"It  is  quite  certain  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  my  father  do?" 

"He — well,  he  told  my  mother  something  about  my 
father,  and,  perhaps  accidentally,  gave  the  wrong  date;  at 
any  rate,  she  understood  that  the  thing  he  told  her  had 
happened  after  they  were  married.  Do  you  see,  dear  ?  It 
was  nothing  bad,  but  it  had  to  do  with  another  woman — 
a  bad  sort  of  woman.  And  when  she  asked  my  father  if 
it  were  true,  he  said  it  was.  She  mentioned  no  date,  you 
see.  Just  before  she  died  the  truth  came  out.  My  father 
thinks  the — the  mistake  killed  her." 

"If  my  father  did  that,  he  is  quite  right  to  refuse  to  let 
you  marry  me." 

He  looked  at  her  surprised.     Her  face  was  stern. 

"He  must  have  been  a  wicked  man,"  she  said. 

It  seemed  unnatural  to  him  that  she  should  speak  like 
that  of  her  dead  father.  This  was  a  new  Audrey  to  him. 
She  seemed  to  feel  his  thoughts. 

"It  is  terrible  to  have  to  speak  so  of  one's  father,  but  it 
is  true,"  she  said,  inexorably. 

"He  may  not  have  been  so  bad  as  he  seems,"  he  tried 
to  comfort  her.  "My  father  said  that  he  wrote  that  he 
had  not  meant  to  tell  her — 

Her  thoughts  had  gone  off  on  a  new  tack. 

"They  loved  each  other  as  much  as  we  do." 

"Audrey,  when  will  you  marry  me  ?" 

She  drew  back  with  a  shiver;  her  face  was  dead  white; 
she  faced  him  with  wide,  terrified  eyes. 

263 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Never,"  she  breathed. 

"You  said  that  before!  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  said 
you  could  live  a  poor  life — that  you  thought  I  was  worth 
it—" 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  know  it  hasn't. 
It's — your  home — I  won't  marry  you — and  take  that  from 
you—" 

She  looked  so  young  and  frightened,  standing  there;  he 
was  confident  of  overruling  her.  But  gradually  he  realized 
that  beneath  her  softness,  her  obvious  fear,  there  was  a 
groundwork  so  solid,  so  unyielding,  that  the  horrible  possi- 
bility of  failure  began  to  dangle  before  his  eyes.  He  would 
not,  could  not,  believe  it.  His  passionate  words  poured 
out:  he  told  her  of  his  plans,  of  the  friend  in  British 
Columbia  who  was  making  a  fortune  on  his  ranch,  and 
whom  he  thought  of  joining.  He  begged,  he  ordered, 
pleaded,  stormed — and  she  stood  there,  with  her  white 
face  and  frightened  eyes,  immovable.  At  last  he  came 
to  an  end,  and  there  was  silence  between  them. 

"You  still  refuse?" 

"Yes." 

"It  amounts  to  this,  then" — his  voice  now  was  cold  and 
quiet  :"that  you  can  love  me  when  I  have  Hurstonleigh  as  a 
picturesque  background,  but  with  a  beggarly  two  hundred 
and  my  way  to  make  in  the  world,  I  am  incapable  of  in- 
spiring your  affection." 

"You  look  just  as  you  did  in  the  conservatory,"  she  said, 
in  a  curious,  detached  little  way. 

He  stared  down  at  her. 

"So,  after  all,  you're  like  most  modern  women:  you  find 
it  easy  enough  to  care  for  a  man  with  plenty  of  money,  but 
devilish  hard  to  care  for  a  poor  beggar  like  me!" 

264 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

She  did  not  look  angry.     She  said,  wearily: 

"You  know  it  isn't  true." 

"Audrey!  Yes,  I  do  know.  Forgive  me,  darling. 
Look  at  me!  Now  listen — 

She  made  a  sudden  quick  movement  away  from  him, 
putting  out  her  hands  in  a  piteous  gesture. 

"Oh,  no,  no!  Not  again!  I  think  I  shall  go  mad  if  you 
say  it  all  again!" 

"But  I  must.     You  don't  think  we  can  part  like  this  ?" 

"  I  want  to  think."  She  put  her  hands  up  before  her  eyes. 
"Martin,  my  head  feels  so  funny.  I — I  don't  think  I  can 
bear  any  more — please — 

"Very  well,  dear.  I  ought  to  have  thought  that  it's  been 
too  much  for  you.  Sit  here.  I  won't  say  a  word." 

She  sat  down  obediently,  and  tried  to  think.  He  leaned 
against  the  trunk  of  a  tree  and  watched  her  anxiously. 

She  found  herself  watching  the  gnats  that  buzzed  above 
the  stream;  then  her  eyes  followed  a  bee  as  it  hovered  over 
a  tall  pink  fox-glove.  She  tried  to  think,  but  in  her  brain, 
over  and  over  again,  drummed  foolishly: 

"How  doth  the  little  busy  bee 
Improve  each  shining  hour, 
And  gather  honey  all  the  day 
From  every  opening  flower." 

"  Audrey,  you  feel  better  now  ?" 
"Yes,  thank  you." 

"And  gather  honey  all  the  day 
And  gather  honey  all  the  day 
How  doth  the  little  busy  bee  .  .  ." 
265 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"I  am  trying  to  think,"  she  said,  piteously.  The  bee  had 
flown  away,  but  still  the  words  drummed  maddeningly  in 
her  brain: 

"How  doth  the  little  busy  bee 
Improve  each  shining  hour  .  .    " 

She  could  not  think.  She  felt  as  if  all  of  her  were  dead 
except  one  mad  corner  of  her  mind,  that  held  only  those 
foolish  words. 

"From  every  opening  flower 
From  every  opening  flower 
And  gather  honey  all  the  day 
From  every  opening  flower." 

"Martin,  I  can't  think.     I  would  like  to  go  home." 
He  took  her  home;    he  was  very  gentle,  very  tender. 
She  promised  she  would  lie  down. 

But  they  were  still  drumming — drumming  .  .  . 

"How  doth  the  little  busy  bee  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

PERHAPS  you  could  make  her  alter  her  mind." 
Marcia  looked  at  him  pitifully. 

"I  have  seen  her,"  she  said,  gently. 

He  stopped  in  his  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

"Well?" 

"She  will  never  change  her  mind,  Martin." 

He  went  on  walking  up  and  down  the  room. 

"I've  never  known  her  at  all,  after  all!  I  thought  she 
was  such  a  gentle  little  thing — " 

"So  she  is." 

"She's  iron!  She  looks  at  me — oh,  God,  I  must  make 
her  change  her  mind!" 

Presently: 

"Aren't  you  surprised  at  her?" 

"No;  I  don't  think  I  am,"  she  said,  slowly.  "I  have 
always  known  that  beneath  her  softness  there  is  an  un- 
usual rigidity  where  her  conscience  is  concerned — a  puri- 
tanism,  the  quality  of  which  martyrs  are  made.  She  will 
never  marry  you,  Martin.  It  may  kill  her,  but  she  won't 
give  in." 

"That's  it.  God  knows,  if  I  thought  she  shrank  from 
the  life  she'd  have  to  live,  I'd  give  her  up  till  I'd  made 
enough  to  offer  her  a  decent  home,  but — " 

"No;  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

She  looked  hopelessly  out  of  the  window. 
18  267 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Martin  came  and  stood  by  her  chair. 

"I  can't  give  her  up,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Marcia's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Your  father— " 

"That's  no  good.  He  swore.  The  curious  part  of  the 
whole  thing  is  that  I  can't  help  sympathizing,  in  a  way, 
with  him.  If  you'd  seen  his  face — after  all  these  years — 
when  he  spoke  of  my  mother's  death.  I  should  do  the 
same,  in  his  place,  I'm  afraid,  unjust  as  it  is.  If  a 
man  were  to  do  to  Audrey — to  come  between  us  when 
we're  married — as  her  father  did,  I  believe  I'd  sooner  see 
my  son  dead  than  married  to  a  child  of  his!  I  know  it's 
all  wrong,  but  there  it  is!" 

"You're  wonderfully  like  your  father,"  she  said,  thought- 
fully. 

"If  only  I  had  known!  I'd  have  worked  it  somehow 
that  he  met  her  without  knowing  who  she  was.  That 
would  have  done  it.  He'd  have  given  in,  once  he  knew 
her.  Now  it's  too  late.  But  I've  got  to  make  her  change 
her  mind  somehow." 

She  looked  up  at  him  hesitatingly;  she  seemed  to  want 
to  say  something  that  yet  she  scarcely  dared.  Marcia  was 
not  often  nervous  over  what  she  considered  to  be  her  duty. 
But  Martin's  face  made  her  hesitate.  At  last  she  said  it. 

"You  mean  you  will  see  her  again?  Go  over  it  all 
again  ?" 

He  nodded  grimly. 

"Martin,  I — believe  you  will  make  her  ill.  She — can't 
stand  it — " 

His  face  did  not  soften. 

"It's  worth  it,  I  believe,  for  her,  as  well  as  for  me." 

"But  it  will  do  no  good." 

268 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

He  turned  on  her  then. 

"Would  you  have  me  give  in  without  a  struggle  ?  Any 
one  would  think  it  was  some  paltry  matter,  without  any 
big  issue  at  stake!  It's  our  lives — her's  and  mine — that's 
all!  And  if  my  fighting  knocks  her  up  now,  it's  worth  it! 
I  tell  you,  it's  worth  it,  and  I  shall  go  on  fighting,  if  need 
be,  till  I  die." 

"Or  she  does,"  Marcia  said. 

"Very  well,  or  till  she  does." 

They  were  silent  for  some  while  then.  He  marched 
about  the  room  restlessly,  picking  up  books  and  putting 
them  down,  stooping  to  pat  Euphemia. 

"I  wish  I  could  help  you,"  Marcia  said,  at  last,  sadly. 

"You  can.  You  can  plead  with  her.  Your  opinion 
has  great  weight  with  her." 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  How  little  he  really 
understood  Audrey!  Couldn't  he  see  that  if  his  pleading 
failed,  the  pleading  of  any  one  else  would  not  even  be  con- 
sidered ?  Or  was  it  only  the  wilful  blindness  of  despera- 
tion ?  She  thought  it  was  the  latter — that  instinctive 
building  up  of  a  mental  wall  to  keep  off  despair. 

So  she  said,  gently,  that  she  would  do  her  best. 

He  turned  to  her  abruptly  after  awhile. 

"You  know  her  well.  She  does  care — a  lot,  doesn't 
she  ?" 

Marcia's  heart  ached  over  him,  he  looked  so  young 
and  desperate. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "She  loves  you  with  all  her  heart 
and  soul." 

"Then  oughtn't  we  to  be  able  to  make  her  see  what  it 
will  mean  to  me  to  live  without  her  ?"  The  words  came  in 
an  eager  rush  now.  "She  knows  I  love  Hurstonleigh. 

269 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

To  leave  it  forever — to  know  that  that  fool  of  a  Harry  is 
making  a  mess  of  everything — would  have  seemed  hell  to 
me  a  few  months  ago.  I  acknowledge  it.  To  give  up  the 
old  man — "  his  voice  shook  a  little — "is  worse  than  hell. 
But  I  can  do  both.  I  can't  give  her  up!  I  must  make  her 
see  it — make  her  see  that  she  is  worth  it  all.  If  she  cares 
enough  she  must  see  it.  If  she  can't  see  it,  it  means — it 
must  mean — that  she  doesn't  care  enough.  Isn't  that 
right  ?" 

Marcia  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  think  you  could  understand,  Martin.  She 
cares  enough,  poor  child,  but  she  will  never  realize  that 
you  could  care  for  her  so  much  that  you  would  never 
repent.  She  is  too  modest  and  too  proud  and  too  conscien- 
tious to  marry  you.  I  wish  I  could  see  some  way  out. 
Even  if  she  gave  in — oh,  Martin,  think  what  you  would 
be  giving  up!" 

"I  have  thought,"  he  said,  curtly. 

"Don't  break  that  paper-knife,  please." 

He  flung  it  down  with  a  little  laugh. 

"I  sha'n't  break  it.  I'm  not  in  a  novel.  If  I  were  I 
should  be  tearing  around,  moving  heaven  and  earth — 
however  that's  done — to  win  her!  As  it  is,  I  shall  pres- 
ently go  in  and  eat  a  good  lunch.  Then  I  shall  go  and 
worry  her  till  she  looks  at  me  as  if  I'm  some  hateful  mon- 
ster she  can't  get  away  from.  And  all  the  irresistible 
arguments  that  are  bound  to  win  her  over  stick  in  my 
throat,  and  I  repeat  myself  till  I  feel  like  that  beastly 
parrot  of  Morley's,  who  never  says  anything  but  'I  love 
you,  my  dear,'  all  day  long!" 

"You  didn't  eat  a  good  breakfast,"  she  said,  dryly. 

"Because  I  didn't  have  my  canter." 
270 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

His  forehead  reddened  a  little. 

"I  was  trying  to  compile  a  few  irresistible  arguments. 
I  wish  I  was  one  of  those  writing  chaps  who  can  reel  off 
a  dozen  romantic  speeches  at  a  moment's  notice.  But 
I'm  going  to  win  this  afternoon.  You  wait  and  see. 
Wish  I  knew  which  side  that  queer  little  mother  of  her's 
is  on.  She  just  keeps  silent." 

"She  won't  be  on  yours." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I'm  not  much  of  a  catch  now!" 

"Think  a  minute,  Martin.  Could  you  expect  her,  un- 
der the  circumstances,  to  wish  her  daughter  to  marry 
you  ?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  Well,  I  can  fight  alone.  No  one's 
on  my  side.  Dick  isn't.  You're  not,  really." 

A  faint  flush  rose  to  her  cheeks.     She  looked  distressed. 

"I  did  my  best  for  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Because  you're  kind,  and  because  you  know  I  won't 
give  in." 

"Well,  you  see,  Martin — oh,  it  breaks  my  heart  to  think 
of  your  not  succeeding  to  Hurstonleigh,  and  you  know 
it  half  breaks  yours!  I  feel  frightened  when  I  think  of 
you  two  starting  your  life  together  with  such  a  tremendous 
sacrifice.  It  seems  to  me  that  there  would  always  be  a 
shadow  over  everything.  Your  love  would  have  to  be 
almost  divine  to  keep  that  shadow  away.  And  it  would 
break  your  father's  heart,  too,  to  lose  you,  and  to  know 
that  Harry  would  reign  there  when  he  was  gone!  He  has 
done  it  all;  but  I  love  him,  and  I  pity  him — all  alone, 
there,  waiting.  .  .  .  And  your  children,  Martin.  Could 
you  help,  if  you  had  a  son,  whenever  you  looked  at  him, 
thinking  of  what  you  had  taken  away  from  him  ?  Oh, 

271 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Martin,  it  is  a  terrible  tangle,  and  I  see  no  way  out 
of  it!" 

He  had  listened  grimly,  his  face  set. 

"There  is  only  one  way  out  of  it,"  he  said,  curtly,  "and 
I've  got  to  make  her  see  it,  too,  that's  all." 

He  turned  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

WHEN  Audrey  had  told  Susan  of  Martin's  love  for 
her,  Susan  had  been  glad.  Her  natural  jealousy 
had  been  unable,  for  the  moment,  to  assert  itself;  it  lay 
buried  beneath  the  peace  and  relief  that  Audrey's  words 
had  brought  to  her.  She  realized  that  all  her  suspicions 
had  been  without  foundation,  her  reasoning  altogether 
wrong.  The  reaction  had  come  during  the  night.  Her 
jealousy  uprose,  and  told  her  relentlessly,  cruelly,  that  she 
would  never  again  be  first  in  Audrey's  life.  She  suffered 
a  good  deal,  but  it  was  suffering  that,  even  in  the  midst  of 
the  pain  of  it,  she  recognized  as  natural — a  suffering  that 
most  mothers  have  to  undergo  at  some  time  or  other;  and 
so  she  found  it  bearable. 

But  when  she  understood  that  the  love-story  was  to  be 
cut  off  short,  that  there  was  to  be  an  end  of  it,  a  fierce 
joy  at  first  possessed  her.  She  would  have  Audrey  all  to 
herself  once  more.  With  conscientious  care  she  told 
Martin  that  she  was  quite  sure  her  husband's  wrong 
dating  of  the  story  had  not  been  intentional. 

"He  was  a  good  man;  he  would  not  tell  a  lie,"  she  said, 
with  the  impartial  fairness  of  one  speaking  of  an  ac- 
quaintance. 

After  that  she  turned  to  Audrey. 

She  told  herself  that  she  was  a  child,  that  she  would 
soon  get  over  her  parting  from  Martin. 

273 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Constitutionally  incapable  herself  of  experiencing  the 
depth  of  a  love  like  Audrey's,  she  treated  it  as  she  would 
have  treated  an  attack  of  influenza  or  any  other  illness. 
All  the  deeps  of  her  own  nature  had  gone  to  swell  the 
love  she  bore  for  her  child;  she  could  only  dimly  under- 
stand any  other  love.  But  she  knew  how  terribly  Audrey 
was  suffering,  and  the  knowledge,  hurting  badly,  was  yet 
softened  to  her  by  her  conviction  that  the  suffering  could 
not  last. 

Her  natural  reserve  stayed  her  from  alluding  to  Martin, 
and  Audrey  was  grateful.  She  found  now  her  nearest 
approach  to  peace  in  her  mother's  company. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

PHE  world  had  grown  so  unreal — everybody  seemed 
1  unreal,  and  everything.  It  was  so  difficult  to  go  on 
talking  and  smiling  to  people  who  were  not  real.  But  she 
had  to  do  it. 

Martin  had  gone. 

Once  before  he  had  gone — long  ago;  but  then  she  had 
known  that  some  day  he  would  come  back. 

Now  he  would  never  come  back. 

He  had  said: 

"If  I  go  now,  I  shall  never  come  back.     Shall  I  go ?" 

And  she  had  said:  "Yes." 

It  seemed  curious  to  think  that  she  had  said  "Yes." 

And  he  had  gone.  She  had  watched  him  go,  in  and  out 
the  trunks  of  the  pine-trees,  on  to  the  long,  white  road,  till 
he  had  dwindled  to  a  speck  and  vanished. 

And  now  there  was  no  one  real  left  in  the  world:  she 
was  all  alone. 

She  was  very  tired.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  to-night  she  would  sleep  so  deeply  that  she 
would  not  dream.  She  had  walked  all  those  miles  to 
make  herself  sleep. 

The  nights  were  so  cruel.  .  .  .  Long  ago  she  had  been 
frightened  of  the  night.  .  .  .  She  was  frightened  now. 

His  face  had  looked  so  old  and  white.  Poor  Martin! 
She  had  had  to  hurt  him — she!  For  a  little  while — such 

275 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

a  little  while — she  had  dreamed  that  she  was  going  to 
help  keep  all  hurt  away  from  him,  and  now  she  had 
made  him  look  old  and  white.  .  .  .  But  he  would  have 
suffered  more  afterwards  if  she  had  not  made  him  suffer 
now. 

He  would  have  suffered  terribly — more  and  more,  as 
the  years  went  by.  He  loved  his  father  and  his  home  so 
dearly.  Years  ago,  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  she  had 
seen  how  proud  he  was  of  his  home.  He  hadn't  said 
much,  but  she  had  seen.  .  .  . 

He  would  have  been  homesick — always.  He  would 
have  tried  to  hide  it,  but  she  would  have  known.  Always 
the  pain  would  have  been  there,  the  longing  for  his  beauti- 
ful home.  Oh  yes,  he  would  have  suffered  terribly. 

Now  he  was  suffering,  too,  but  some  one  had  told  her 
that  men  do  not  go  on  suffering  as  women  do.  They 
forget.  Martin  would  forget.  And  she  would  be  glad. 
Yes,  she  ivould  be  glad — soon.  She  was  very  selfish.  .  .  . 

The  sunlight  had  flickered  down  through  the  pines  onto 
his  head,  his  shoulders,  as  he  went  away.  He  had  such  a 
fine  head,  such  broad  shoulders.  .  .  . 

She  had  never  asked  him  what  it  was  in  her  that  he  had 
first  loved.  And  now  he  had  gone.  She  wished  it  were 
winter,  cold,  bare  winter.  She  was  so  tired  of  the  hot 
sunshine,  it  made  her  feel  so  queer  and  dizzy. 

One  day  he  had  told  her  that  although  Hurstonleigh 
was  not  entailed,  it  had  come  down  from  father  to  son  in 
one  unbroken  line,  since  it  was  presented  by  Richard  I.  to 
that  Martin  Henry  Jocelyn  who  had  so  distinguished  him- 
self as  a  gallant  Crusader.  He  had  been  proud  of  that. 
Yet  he  had  wanted  to  give  it  all  up  for  her!  It  was  strange 
how  even  that  thought  now  could  not  make  her  feel  any- 

276 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

thing  but  that  sort  of  ache  that  never  went.  She  was  go- 
ing to  be  very  brave,  but  she  wished  she  were  not  quite  so 
young.  If  she  lived  till  she  were  seventy — fifty  years  more 
— over  twice  as  long  as  she  had  lived  already!  Fifty  years 
seemed  such  a  long  time  to  ache  and  ache.  .  .  . 

Men  were  different,  so  she  had  been  told.  She  was 
glad  for  Martin's  sake.  She  could  not  bear  Martin  to 
have  that  pain.  A  long  while  ago  she  had  felt  that  if  he 
came  again  and  again  to  argue  and  plead,  she  would  go 
mad;  she  had  felt  that  she  could  not  bear  it.  How  strange 
that  seemed  now!  Because  while  he  argued  and  pleaded, 
he  had  been  there, — close  beside  her — and  the  world  was 
real. 

Now  she  would  never  see  him  again,  never  hear  his 
voice.  He  had  such  a  nice  voice — Martin. 

All  the  time  she  had  known,  deep  down,  that  she  was 
too  happy.  God  had  thought  so  too.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  He  had  been  rather  cruel,  but  she  must  not  think 
that;  somewhere  there  was,  she  supposed,  a  meaning  to 
it.  Only  she  was  too  tired  now  to  find  it. 

She  hoped  Martin  did  not  feel  so  tired. 

And  there  was  the  pain  behind  her  eyes,  inside  her  head; 
it  was  such  a  solid  sort  of  pain.  She  hoped  he  didn't  have 
that,  either,  or  the  other  pains. 

But  men  were  different.  .  .  . 

Once  he  had  said: 

"You're  the  bravest  little  soul  in  the  world!" 

How  queer  that  seemed.  Because  really  she  was  such 
a  coward.  She  was  so  frightened  of  the  night.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps she  would  tell  him,  and  he  would  laugh  that  dear 
laugh  that  never  hurt,  and  then  she  would  not  be  fright- 
ened any  more.  .  .  .  She  was  never  frightened  when  he 

277 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

was  with  her.  .  .  .  Nor  tired.  .  .  .  He  had  such  nice, 
kind  hands.  .  .  .  You  were  always  safe  and  glad  with 
him.  .  .  . 

"Martin,  I'm  so  tired.  .  .  ." 

Marcia  had  come  into  the  copse. 

She  stood  looking  down  at  Audrey,  fast  asleep. 

Slowly  the  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  She  turned  to 
where  Dick  stood  a  little  way  behind  her. 

"Only  three  weeks,  and  look  at  her!"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  Then,  on  a  sudden  impulse,  she  added:  "No, 
don't  look!" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  no  one  should  look;  she  turned 
away  herself.  Audrey's  soul  lay  at  the  mercy  of  any 
onlooker — there,  in  her  tired  face — her  pained  and  weary 
soul — hurt  so  sorely:  all  her  barriers  were  down,  swept 
away  by  the  deep  sleep  of  exhaustion.  The  shadows  be- 
neath her  eyes  told  of  tragedy;  the  lines  of  her  young 
mouth  spoke  of  the  pain  of  hopelessness. 

Marcia  went  softly  away.  She  sat  on  a  tree-trunk  out 
of  sight,  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"Don't  do  that,"  Dick  urged.  "She's  so  young,  you 
know—" 

"Don't  add  that  she  will  get  over  it!  Oh  yes,  she  will, 
to  the  extent  that  she'll  go  on  living — if  it  can  be  called 
living:  she  will  eat  and  drink  and  talk,  and  in  the  years  to 
come  the  pain  will  be  a  dull  one  instead  of  sharp.  Then 
when  she's  old,  she'll  be  lonely,  and  she  will  love  to  sit 
and  dream  of  all  this.  That's  all.  She  isn't  an  ordinary 
girl,  Dick.  Can't  you  see  that  ?  I  saw  it  years  ago.  I 
said  that  her  life  could  hold  an  awful  tragedy  or  a  won- 
derful happiness.  Well,  it's  the  tragedy.  And  it's  a 

278 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

tragedy  for  Martin,  too.     And  all  the  work  of  one  obsti- 
nate old  man!" 

"D'  you  think  if  you  went  to  him  ?"  he  suggested. 

"I'll  try  it.  But  I  know  beforehand  that  it  will  be  no 
use.  He  has  sworn,  and  on  his  dead  wife's  Bible." 

They  sat  silent,  while  the  summer  world  around  them 
sang  and  danced  in  the  golden  light,  in  the  joyous  sun- 
shine that  pushed  its  way  through  the  trees,  using  every 
tiniest  gap  and  loophole  to  work  its  yellow  way  through 
on  to  the  bushes  and  bracken  beneath. 

"I  know  no  one  dies  of  love  nowadays,"  Marcia  said, 
gloomily,  "but  I'm  not  at  all  sure  if  something  is  not  done 
that  that  child  won't.  She's  such  a  plucky  little  thing,  but 
in  a  way  her  very  pluck  is  against  her — it  wears  her  out.  All 
day  long  she  is  fighting,  and  I  don't  expect  she  gets  much 
rest  at  night." 

"Well,  I  don't  know;  I  thought  yesterday  she  seemed 
very  bright.  She  was  playing  cricket  with  the  boys,  and 
teasing  Bobbie." 

Marcia  smiled  at  him. 

"Oh,  Dick,  you're  very  nice,  but  you're  very  much  a 
man!  Now  go  away.  She  won't  want  you  when  she 
wakes." 

"Will  she  want  you  ?     Because  I  do,  you  know." 

"Don't  be  foolish.     Now  go." 

It  was  half  an  hour  later  that  Audrey  woke.  Marcia 
had  moved  so  that  through  the  tree-trunks  she  could  just 
see  a  bit  of  her  frock.  When  she  stirred  she  rose  softly, 
and  went  to  her. 

Audrey  turned,  her  eyes  scared. 

"Have  I  been  asleep?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

279 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"For  long?" 

"Yes,  a  nice,  long  sleep." 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  wake  me?  Why  did  you  let  me 
sleep?  It  was  cruel!  Oh,  it  was  cruel!"  She  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands;  then  she  stood  up  and  smiled.  "I'm 
sorry.  I  think  I  was  still  half  asleep." 

"Don't  pretend  with  me,  child." 

Audrey's  lips  quivered. 

"It's  only  that  I  don't  sleep  very  well  at  night,"  she  said, 
"and  I  thought  it  would  make  me  more  wakeful — sleeping 
now." 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  You  have  been  too  tired  to 
sleep.  Audrey" — her  voice  was  very  caressing — "can't 
you  ever  cry  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  used  to  cry  very  easily  when  I  was  a  child.  A  little 
while  ago  I  cried  over  a  book  that  ended  sadly.  But  I 
can't  now." 

"Haven't  you,  since  Martin  went  ?" 

It  was  the  first  time  any  one  had  mentioned  his  name  to 
her  in  these  three  weeks.  Marcia  did  it  deliberately.  She 
saw  her  wince,  but  her  eyes  remained  feverishly  bright. 

"No,"  she  said.     "I  don't  know  why." 

She  put  up  her  hand  to  her  eyes. 

Into  Marcia's  mind  flashed: 

"  Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears, 
That  grief  hath  shaken   into  frost !" 

She  knew  that  somehow  she  must  make  Audrey  cry. 
Audrey  looked  at  her  with  a  miserable  little  smile. 
"I  think  it's  all  here,"  she  tapped  her  brow. 
280 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Frozen,"  Marcia  said. 

Audrey  glanced  at  her,  startled. 

"It — feels  like  that,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Oh,  my  dear!     My  dear!"  Marcia  said. 

She  bent  forward  and  kissed  her. 

"Will  you  come  home  with  me  to-night  ?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

"I  want  you,  dear.  And  you  are  nearer  the  Hall.  I 
will  send  to  your  mother." 

"Very  well,  thank  you." 

Marcia  knew  that  she  did  not  wish  to  come;  she  knew 
that  she  shrank  from  meeting  any  one,  even  Dick;  she 
knew  that  she  had  assented  because  of  that  very  shrinking. 
That  was  how  she  was  fighting. 

"I  want  to  have  a  quiet  evening — just  we  two,"  she 
said.  "Dick  is  going  to  a  bachelor's  dinner  at  Millthorpe. 
We'll  have  just  a  little  simple  dinner  in  my  room,  shall 
we?" 

"Yes,  please.  Sha'n't  we  have  the  boys  ?  It  wouldn't 
matter  their  going  to  bed  late  for  once,  would  it  ?  You 
are  very  particular  about  their  bedtimes,  aren't  you  ? 
Do  you  think  that  is  why  they  are  all  so  well  and  strong  ? 
Dickie  isn't  so  strong  as  the  others,  of  course,  but  she  is 
never  really  ill,  is  she  ?" 

Marcia's  heart  ached;  these  outbursts  of  conventional 
talk  hurt  her — they  were  so  different  from  Audrey's  old 
manner. 

They  had  a  cosey  little  dinner.  Audrey  said  she  en- 
joyed it  immensely.  She  said  it  at  intervals. 

"How  nice  it  is  here!  .  .  Isn't  it  cosey!  ...  I  do  like 
having  dinner  like  this!"  And  each  word  rang  to  Marcia's 
sensitive  ear  with  that  conventional  note — the  note  called 

281 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

forth  by  her  saying  and  doing  what  she  considered  she 
ought  to  say  and  do,  and  not  what  she  would  have  liked 
to  do,  which  would  have  been  to  keep  silence. 

After  dinner  Marcia  talked,  always  with  the  object 
before  her  of  breaking  down  that  terrible  calm  of  Audrey's. 
She  talked  of  Martin,  of  his  boyhood,  till  the  white  pain 
in  the  patient  little  face  opposite  her  choked  back  the 
words,  and  she  talked  of  other  things.  But  all  the  while 
her  mind  was  worrying  as  to  how  she  could  achieve  her 
end. 

At  last  the  thought  of  Bobbie  came  into  her  mind.  She 
tried  to  see  her  impartially,  to  get  rid  of  all  sentiment,  and 
still  she  thought  that  a  drowsy,  loving  Bobbie — a  fat  night- 
gowned  Bobbie — might  do  what  she  had  failed  to  do. 
Audrey's  nerves  were  highly  strung  from  the  talk  about 
Martin.  Bobbie's  soft  embraces  might  be  successful. 

"I'm  just  going  to  peep  at  the  boys,"  she  said,  and  left 
the  room. 

Her  heart  failed  her  when  she  stood  looking  down  on 
Bobbie,  fast  asleep,  with  a  bear  clasped  in  her  arms.  But 
inexorably  she  bent  and  roused  her. 

"Holloa!"  Bobbie  said,  and  shut  her  eyes  again. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  lovely  to  come  down-stairs  into  mother's 
room  for  a  little  while  ?"  Marcia  wheedled. 

"— loa!"  grunted  Bobbie. 

"Just  you,  sweet,  and  it's  so  late!  You  would  be  just 
like  a  grown-up,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

Bobbie  roused  a  little. 

"  Bob  be  a  grown-up." 

"Yes,  dear.  Audrey  is  down  there.  You  love  Audrey, 
don't  you  ?" 

"Be  a  grown-up." 

282 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Come  along,  then.     Won't  it  be  nice  to  hug  Audrey  ?" 

"Hug  Audrey,"  Bobbie  agreed,  with  a  drowsy  smile. 

Marcia,  looking  at  her,  thought  she  must  succeed;  truly 
Bobbie,  flushed  with  sleep,  was  adorable. 

"Take  little  b'ar." 

"No,  darling,  leave  the  bear  in  bed." 

"Bob  want  little  b'ar." 

Marcia,  with  a  dim  idea  that  the  requisite  hugs  might 
be  bestowed  on  the  bear,  instead  of  on  Audrey,  were  he 
allowed  to  accompany  them,  refused  to  let  him  leave  the 
bed. 

She  carried  Bobbie  down-stairs,  planted  her  in  Audrey's 
lap,  and  with  some  excuse,  left  the  room. 

"Want  little  b'ar,"  said  Bobbie,  frowning. 

"Is  he  up-stairs,  dear?" 

"In  bed.  Bob  want  to  go  back  to  bed."  She  wriggled 
off  Audrey's  lap  onto  the  floor.  "  Bob  goin'  back."  She 
trotted  with  fat  determination  towards  the  door. 

"You  must  wait  here  till  mother  comes  back,  darling." 

"Bob  won't.  Want  little  b'ar.  Go  'way.  Want  lit- 
tle b'ar." 

Poor  Bobbie,  she  was  very  sleepy  and  very  cross. 

Audrey  put  her  arms  round  her.  Bobbie  kicked  vigor- 
ously; then  slipped  to  the  floor,  and  lay  there,  on  her 
stomach,  howling. 

"Want  little  b'ar!  Ooh!  O-o-o-h!  Want  to  go  back 
to  bed!  Oh!  Ooh!  Oooh!  Go  'way,  bad  ole  thing! 
Bob  don't  yove  you  a  bit!  Oh,  dear!  Want  little  b'ar! 
Oh!  Oh!" 

Marcia  hurried  in.  Bobbie  was  carried  back  to  her 
bed,  weeping  bitterly. 

It  was  the  next  morning,  soon  after  breakfast,  that 
19  283 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Dick  came  ruefully  to  Marcia,  deep  in  housekeeping 
duties. 

"I  say,  I'm  afraid  I've  done  it!  I'm  an  awful  fool — 
a  blundering  ass!" 

His  face  was  full  of  guilty  compunction;  he  looked 
wretched. 

"What  have  you  done?"  Marcia  said. 

"Why,  I  wanted  to  cheer  Audrey  up  a  bit,  and  I  thought 
nothing  could  do  it  like  a  visit  to  the  stables.  There's 
nothing  like  horses  for  driving  away  the  blues,  so  I  al- 
ways find.  And  I  thought  she  looked  pale,  although  she 
was  talking  quite  cheerfully.  So  I  took  her  off.  I  say, 
Marcia,  you'll  think  I'm  an  awful  fool!" 

"Never  mind  that,"  she  said,  half  smiling;   "go  on." 

"Well,  you  know  that  chestnut  Martin  bought  of  me  is 
still  here,  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  I  took  her  straight 
to  Topsy,  who's  in  the  next  stall  to  Redcap.  And  you 
know  how  she  used  always  to  go  and  see  him  with  Martin 
— take  him  sugar,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Well,  she  turn- 
ed her  back  to  his  stall — only  looked  at  Topsy;  and  the 
chestnut  stretched  up,  and  he  gave  a  sort  of  whinney,  and 
I  said,  like  a  fool:  'He's  jealous.  Go  round  to  him.'  And 
she  stood  a  minute  with  an  awful  queer  look,  and  then 
suddenly  she  ran  round  to  him  and  burst  out  crying.  He 
sort  of  nozzled  into  her  neck,  you  know.  By  Jove,  it 
was  horrid  sort  of  crying,  poor  little  soul!  I  thought  I'd 
better  come  away.  I  fairly  ran,  and  shut  the  door.  She's 
in  there  now.  I'm  awfully  sorry  I  was  such  a  fool  as  to 
take  her  to  the  stables." 

"Oh,  Dick,"  Marcia  said,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  "you're 
not  a  fool,  but  a  genius!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

"  TT's  my  belief  that  before  winter's  here  she  and  I  will 

1  both  be  laid  beneath  the  ground,"  Amelia  said,  peel- 
ing potatoes. 

"You  are  a  morbid  fool,"  Susan  replied,  strongly. 

"Fool  or  no  fool,  I  can  see  death  in  a  face  when  it's 
there  to  be  seen." 

"And  when  it  isn't.     Be  quiet." 

Susan's  tone  silenced  her  for  the  time  being.  But  late- 
ly Amelia's  awe  of  Susan  had  lessened,  overpowered  a 
good  deal  by  the  strength  of  the  lachrymose  mood  that  was 
always  upon  her  now.  Presently  she  went  on,  in  the 
rambling  monologue  habitual  to  her  lately: 

"A  person  who's  as  sensitive  as  I  am  can  see  deeper 
than  them  who  are  as  hard  as  a  piece  of  wood.  There 
was  the  love  of  my  youth,  too — " 

"I  shouldn't  think  you  would  be  proud  of  that  inci- 
dent," Susan  put  in,  harshly. 

Amelia  was  not  immediately  cowed,  as  she  had  been 
wont  to  be  by  such  a  remark. 

"I've  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  I  was  young  and 
innocent  and  loving,  that's  all." 

"The  way  you  chased  him  to  England  was  disgraceful, 
and  you  know  it.  You  knew  then  that  he  was  a  married 
man." 

"I  didn't!  I  couldn't  believe  it!  I  didn't  know  that 
285 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

men  were  so  wicked.  You  are  a  hard  woman,  Susan. 
Any  one  would  think  that  you'd  never  done  or  thought  a 
thing  that  wasn't  quite  straight." 

Susan  dropped  the  cloth  she  had  been  folding;  she 
faced  Amelia. 

"Well,  have  I  ?"  she  said,  with  an  air  which  had  a  sort 
of  superb  defiance  about  it. 

Amelia  blinked  and  fumbled  among  the  potatoes. 

"How  can  I  tell?"  she  said,  fretfully.  "We're  none 
perfect.  We're  all  miserable  sinners.  It  says  so  in  the 
Prayer-book.  I'm  sure  I  never  meant  any  harm,  what- 
ever I  may  have  done.  You  never  can  look  forward  and 
see  how  things  will  turn  out.  And  now  it's  fretting  me 
to  death  to  see  her  poor  little  white  face,  and  her  so  brave 
and  bright  with  it  all,  and  that  kind  to  me  it  pierces  my 
heartstrings,  and  all  the  time  I  know  what  I  know."  The 
tears  were  trickling  down  her  face  now  and  dropping 
among  the  potato  skins.  "I  was  never  meant  to  be  a 
Judas,"  she  muttered,  wretchedly. 

Susan  stood  very  still;  the  color  had  left  her  face  slowly 
as  Amelia  mumbled  on.  She  had  presented  her  with  a 
new  and  terrible  idea.  She  said  nothing,  but  turned  and 
went  quietly  from  the  room,  up  the  stairs,  and  into  her 
bedroom,  where  she  locked  the  door,  and,  as  was  her  cus- 
tom, went  and  stood  by  the  window. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  idea  had  never  entered 
her  mind  before.  She  had  seen  Audrey  growing  pale 
and  thin;  she  had  seen  the  strain  in  her  eyes;  had  seen 
what  an  effort  it  was  to  her  to  eat,  but  the  idea  had  not 
entered  her  mind.  She  had  reassured  herself  with  plat- 
itudes about  the  tryingness  of  the  extreme  heat;  about 
the  healing  powers  of  Time;  the  effervescent  nature  of 

286 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

such  maladies  in  youth.  She  had  suffered  acutely  be- 
cause Audrey  was  suffering,  but  this  idea  presented  by 
Amelia  had  never  entered,  in  the  vaguest  form,  into  her 
mind. 

Give  her  child  up! 

Now  she  grappled  with  the  hideous  thought.  In  her 
mind  dinned  the  words  of  that  weak  and  foolish  mother: 
"O  my  lord,  give  her  the  living  child,  and  in  no  wise  slay 
it."  Never!  She  would  sooner  see  Audrey  dead!  She 
was  hers  —  hers!  She  could  not  belong  to  that  other 
woman — that  woman  who  thought  of  nothing  but  her 
frocks  and  gayeties.  She  had  not  known  her  when  they 
met.  If  Audrey  were  her  child,  she  must  have  felt  it. 
Amelia  was  a  fool.  What  did  she  know  ?  Nothing!  She 
could  only  suspect.  And  in  her  weak  sentimentality  she 
would  have  her  give  up  Audrey — publish  the  fact  abroad 
that  she  was  that  woman's  child — so  that  she  could  marry 
the  man  she  cared  for.  But  she  was  not  that  woman's 
child.  She  was  hers!  And  she  would  never  give  her  up. 
Never!  She  moved  suddenly  to  the  wardrobe,  and,  taking 
the  key  from  her  pocket,  unlocked  the  lower  drawer.  She 
took  out  a  neatly  folded  bundle,  and,  with  hands  that 
shook,  unrolled  it.  A  tiny  chemise  fluttered  to  the  ground — 
a  delicate,  dainty  thing,  trimmed  with  Valenciennes  lace — 
a  baby's  chemise,  curiously  out  of  accord  with  the  hands 
that  picked  it  up  and  then  flung  it  contemptuously  aside, 
She  flung  aside  also  a  little  nightgown  trimmed  with  the 
same  lace;  then  she  stood  holding  in  her  hands  a  long 
flannel  petticoat,  daintily  embroidered,  and  with  the  ini- 
tials "  B.  M.  H.-D."  worked  in  the  corner.  It  was  at  these 
letters  Susan  stared,  her  face  distorted  with  passion.  Once 
she  made  as  if  she  would  tear  the  flannel  to  shreds,  but 

287 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

instead  she  dropped  it  into  the  drawer,  and,  rising,  went 
back  to  the  window.  Her  mind  was  working  now  over 
all  the  old  arguments.  Ever  since  that  day,  nineteen 
years  ago,  when,  strong  again  after  her  long  illness,  she 
had  looked  through  her  baby's  clothing,  and  had  found 
there  the  tiny  chemise  and  petticoat  and  nightgown,  she 
had  used,  over  and  over  again,  the  same  arguments.  She 
could  see  now  the  pretty  Irish  girl  who  had  been  looking 
after  her  baby.  She  could  hear  the  replies  that,  with  their 
strong  accent,  had  nearly  driven  her  mad:  "Sure,  thin, 
they  were  the  purty  clothes  the  darlint  had  worn  when 
the  sailor  bhoy  gave  her  into  her  own  arms.  Wet  through 
the  wee  thing  had  been,  with  the  waves  splashing  into 
the  boat.  And  her  ould  nurse  lying  unconscious,  and 
dead  this  three  months  and  more,  God  rest  her  sowl! 
Was  it  how  had  they  known  who  the  baby  was  belong- 
ing to  ?  Hadn't  the  ould  nurse  been  holding  her,  for  all 
she  was  like  dead  ?  And  wasn't  the  ould  nurse  her  hon- 
or's own  servant  ?  And  wasn't  her  honor  in  the  same 
boat,  too,  with  her  poor  head  bandaged,  where  she'd  been 
knocked  down  and  hit  it  against  something  sharp  ?  Oh, 
a  terrible  sight  she  was,  and  them  never  thinking  she'd 
live  after  all  she'd  been  through!  Was  it  know  her  own 
baby  thin  ?  And  her  next  door  to  dead  and  more!  'Twas 
herself,  Molly  O'Leary,  had  received  the  wee  thing  into 
her  own  arms.  And  hadn't  she  whipped  off  her  wet  clothes 
in  a  minute,  and  had  all  her  snug  and  warm  ?"  Yes,  she 
could  see  and  hear  it  all  as  clearly  now  as  she  had  seen 
and  heard  it  nineteen  years  ago.  She  could  even  smell  the 
curious  scent  that  rose  from  the  turf  fires  of  that  quaint 
little  Irish  village.  She  could  see,  too,  the  list  of  those 
drowned  as  she  had  read  it  in  the  old  newspaper  one 

288 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

day  when  the  rain  was  pattering  on  the  window  while 
the  sun  shone  and  the  birds  sang: 

Robert  Arthur  Robertson. 

Alice  Gowham. 

William  Jones. 

Wallace  Alexander  Hartley-Dent. 

Barbara  Muriel  Hartley-Dent. 

John  Abbotsford. 

Richard  Greening. 

John  Henry  Charles  Fielding. 

Mrs.  Cooper. 

Ambrose  Cooper. 

Marian  A.  Cooper. 

Archibald  Henderson. 

Name  by  name  she  went  through  the  list.  She  had  never 
forgotten  it.  Each  name  was  burned  into  her  memory, 
just  as  she  had  read  it  that  morning  in  the  stuffy  little 
parlor  of  the  village  "hotel."  Only  one  name  sometimes 
wavered  before  her  eyes;  there  were  times  when  shudder- 
ingly,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  would  find  herself  substitut- 
ing one  name  for  another — watching,  as  it  were,  the  effect 
when  she  read  in  between  Wallace  Alexander  Hartley- 
Dent  and  John  Abbotsford  the  name  Audrey  Mary  Field- 
ing instead  of  Barbara  Muriel  Hartley-Dent.  She  did 
it  now.  Out  against  the  blue  distance  she  read  the  words 
"Audrey  Mary  Fielding"  over  and  over  again.  .  .  .  That 
day,  months  after,  when  Amelia  had  come  to  the  gray 
cottage.  ...  It  had  been  a  wet,  cold  day  in  winter.  Amelia 
had  been  weary  and  draggled  and  ill;  she  had  been  hys- 
terical, full  of  her  ill-treatment  at  the  hands  of  her  quon- 

289 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

dam  lover.  She  had  laughed  and  cried  and  stared  oddly 
at  the  child  asleep  in  her  cradle.  She  had  said,  staring 
at  the  baby,  that  she  must  tell  Susan  something  that  she 
had  come  to  tell  her,  and  Susan,  in  an  agony  of  fear,  had 
put  her  off.  And  that  was  all.  Amelia  had  been  ill;  she 
had  stayed  in  bed  for  weeks,  and  she  had  never  told. 
What  was  it  she  had  been  going  to  tell  on  that  bleak  win- 
ter's day?  Was  it  only  that  she  saw  a  difference  in  the 
child  ?  That  she  felt  she  was  not  Susan's  ?  Or  did  she 
know  something?  She  said  that  she  had  come  to  tell 
something.  Had  she  seen  that  other  baby  taken  into  an- 
other boat — the  boat  that  went  down  ?  Had  she  ?  But 
she  had  not  been  in  that  boat.  She  could  not  know. 
In  the  awful  rush  and  terror,  how  could  she  be  sure  of 
anything  ?  If  she  had  seen  a  baby  carried  into  the  ill- 
fated  boat  she  could  not  have  been  sure  it  was  Susan's 
baby.  Why  should  it  be  ?  Wouldn't  nurse  Ridley  nat- 
urally have  Susan's  baby  in  her  charge  ?  It  was  the  poor 
little  Hartley-Dent  child  who  had  been  taken  into  the 
other  boat.  It  must  have  been.  She  averted  her  eyes 
from  those  baby  garments;  but  she  still  saw  them,  as 
she  always  saw  them,  with  the  frivolous  lace,  and  the 
B.  M.  H.-D.  worked  in  the  corner  of  the  petticoat  .  .  . 

They  had  been  washed  ashore  .  .  .  the  Irish  girl  had 
made  a  mistake;  they  had  not  been  worn  by  her  baby — 
by  the  baby  who  was  saved.  They  were  part  of  the  ward- 
robe of  the  baby  who  was  drowned.  In  all  the  excitement 
caused  in  that  Irish  village  by  the  wreck  of  the  Victoria, 
and  the  arrival  of  their  boat,  a  mistake  could  so  easily 
have  been  made  .  .  . 

And  was  it  likely  that  nurse  Ridley  would  take  up  the 
wrong  child  ?  .  .  .  And  her  own  words  bereft  the  last 

290 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

thought  of  all  power  to  comfort.  .  .  .  They  repeated  them- 
selves in  her  brain — "excitement — a  mistake  could  so  easily 
have  been  made  .  .  ." 

She  remembered  the  storm;  the  sudden  crash;  the 
noise;  the  bewilderment  and  terror,  and  inexorably  she 
told  herself  that  it  was  possible  the  woman  had  seized  up 
the  wrong  child.  And  with  colorless  lips,  locked  in  an 
uncompromising  line,  with  the  last  thought  in  her  mind, 
she  knelt  before  the  drawer  to  put  away  the  chemise  and 
petticoat,  she  said: 

"She  is  mine!  I  will  never  give  her  up!  I  will  let  her 
die  sooner!" 


DICKIE  crept  to  her  softly  across  the  lawn. 
"When  Snippet  died  I  felt  very  bad  for  months 
and  months,"  she  said. 

Audrey  stroked  her  head. 

"Who  was  Snippet,  sweet  ?" 

"A  wee  little  Yorkshire  terrier.  She  took  a  lot  of 
prizes  at  dog  shows.  I  used  to  hope  dreffly  that  she  would 
have  puppies.  I  used  to  pray  God  every  night  to  send 
her  three,  and  in  the  morning  I  used  to  creepity-creep  to 
her  basket,  but  she  never  had  any.  Nurse  said  it  was  be- 
cause she  wasn't  married.  We  were  going  to  marry  her 
to  Euphemia,  and  then  she  died.  I  think  it  was  ap — 
appendicitis,  because  she  swallowed  a  bit  of  bone,  which 
Euphemia  had  stolen  and  left.  It  made  you  hurt  dreffly 
when  you  saw  her  all  cold  and  dead.  That's  why  I  know 
how  you  feel.  You  see,  I'm  not  going  to  worry  you. 
Mother  told  me  you  were  sad,  when  I  asked  her,  and  she 
said  I  wasn't  to  worry  you." 

"You  never  could  worry  me,  Dickie." 

Dickie  rubbed  her  cheek  up  and  down  against  her 
hand. 

"  Dear,  will  it  worry  you  if  I  say  a  wicked  thought  ?" 

"No." 

"You  see,  I  thought  it  when  I  woke  up  this  morning. 
It's  very  wicked." 

292 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Tell  it  to  me,  Dickie." 

"Don't  you  think  God  might  have  come  down  with  that 
poor  little  Jesus  just  at  first  when  He  was  all  among  horses 
and  cows  and  things  ?  Because,  how  would  Jesus  know 
not  to  get  behind  their  hoofs  ?" 

"He  couldn't  walk,  you  goose,"  observed  Jimmy,  who 
had  come  up  behind  them.  "And  God  gave  Him  a  moth- 
er. What  /  want  to  know  is:  Did  they  have  buttons  in 
the  Garden  of  Eden,  Audrey  ?" 

"No." 

"  Did  they  have  hooks  ?" 

"No,  dear." 

"Tapes,  then?" 

"No." 

"Then  how  did  Adam  and  Eve  keep  the  leaves  on?" 

There  was  a  little  pause. 

"Euphemia,  drop  that  ball!  She's  eaten  two  already 
this  morning!" 

"Jimmy,  how  dirty  you  are!     Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"Oh,  climbing,"  said  Jimmy,  airily.  "Au  'voir,  dear- 
est!" 

"I  must  go  and  see  what  she's  been  doing,"  said  Dickie. 

Audrey  smiled. 

"So  you  saw  the  demon  in  her  eye,  too,  did  you  ?" 

That  afternoon,  Audrey,  who  had  lunched  at  the  Hall, 
went  to  see  Mrs.  Forbes.  She  went  chiefly  because,  in 
her  zeal,  she  had  come  to  look  upon  all  the  things  she  had 
a  special  repugnance  to  doing  as  the  things  she  must  do. 
She  was  wearing  herself  out  in  her  very  efforts  not  to  give 
way.  She  hated  the  sight  of  the  Professor,  because  he 
had  written  to  Martin's  father  and  gossiped  unwarrant- 
ably. She  had,  of  course,  no  idea  that  his  letter  had  been 

293 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

actuated  by  a  petty  spite,  and  she  was  sure  that  it  really 
had  made  no  difference:  Hilary  Jocelyn's  feeling  went  too 
deep  for  that.  But  still  she  disliked  him  for  his  meddling 
and  his  association  in  such  an  unpleasing  light  with  her 
and  Martin. 

She  was  surprised,  as  she  left  the  house,  to  find  herself 
accompanied  by  an  excessively  sedate  Jimmy  and  equally 
sedate  Tommy. 

"May  we  come  with  you,  dear?" 

"  But  I'm  going  to  call  on  Mrs.  Forbes." 

They  knew  that.     Might  they  come  ? 

So  they  set  out  together.  Audrey  looked  doubtfully  at  the 
two  children  in  their  immaculate  white  embroidered  frocks. 

"You  will  be  good?"  she  said. 

"Oh  yes!" 

They  found  Mrs.  Forbes  entertaining. 

Once  Audrey  would  have  shrunk  shyly  from  entering 
the  stiff  room  where  four  people  sat  round  stiffly;  sipping 
tea  stiffly;  talking  stiffly;  keeping  silence  stiffly.  Mrs. 
Forbes  was  a  shockingly  bad  hostess;  she  had  no  idea  of 
making  people  talk.  When  she  talked  herself  she  invari- 
ably chose  a  topic  she  had  better  have  avoided. 

Audrey  entered  the  room  quite  serenely  now.  Lately 
all  people  and  things  seemed  the  same  to  her,  except  the 
few  she  loved.  She  greeted  Lady  Horleigh  calmly,  though 
once  that  stout  and  autocratic  dame  had  filled  her  with 
terror. 

Mrs.  Forbes  was  nervously  effusive. 

"Do  talk,"  she  whispered,  and  so  effectually  sealed  her 
lips. 

"Isn't  it  a  beautiful  day!"  Jimmy  observed  to  Miss 
Morley. 

294 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Miss  Morley  was  intellectual,  and  did  not  care  for  chil- 
dren. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Isn't  it  a  beautiful  day!"  Tommy  echoed  to  Mrs. 
Sinclair. 

Mrs.  Sinclair  had  five  very  plain  children,  and  con- 
sidered that  the  little  Barringtons  were  overdressed  and 
overpraised. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

Tommy  started  making  the  most  awful  grimaces. 

"Audrey,"    she    whispered,  "I'm  going  to  laugh!      I 

/" 

am  ! 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Tommy!" 

Tommy  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  trees  beyond  the  open 
windows. 

Mrs.  Forbes  suddenly  ejaculated: 

"Isn't  it  a  beautiful  day!" 

"Lovely,"  Audrey  agreed,  seriously.  "There  is  a 
breeze,  too,  to-day.  It  has  been  so  fearfully  hot  lately." 

"Perfect  weather,"  let  fall  Lady  Horleigh  in  sonorous 
tones. 

Tommy  began  to  gabble  audibly: 

"/  stood  beneath   a   hollow  tree,  the  blast  it  hollow  blew; 
I  thought    upon    the    hollow    world,  and  all  its   hollow 

crew: 
Ambition    and  its   hollow  schemes,  the  hollow  hopes   we 

follow, 
Imagination's  hollow  dreams — all  hollow,  hollow,  hollow!" 

"You  have  not  been  asked  to  recite,  Sybil,"  Lady  Hor- 
leigh said,  disapprovingly. 

295 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Mary,"  observed  Mrs.   Sinclair,  "is  a  year  younger 

than  Sybil,  and  she  recites  with  infinitely  more  expres- 

» 
sion. 

Tommy,  with  a  very  red  face,  repeated  desperately: 
"  Imagination's  hollow  dreams — all  hollow,  hollow,  hoi — " 

A  giggle  tittered  across  the  room,  another  and  another. 

Audrey  said,  hurriedly,  to  Lady  Horleigh: 

"Were  you  caught  in  that  storm  yesterday?" 

"Why,"  cried  Mrs.  Forbes,  "couldn't  Eve  catch  the 
measles  ?" 

"Oh,"  squealed  Tommy,  rocking  with  laughter,  "how 
awfully  funny!" 

Jimmy  considered  gravely;  the  others  looked  bored. 

"Don't  tell  us,"  Audrey  said.     "Let  us  think." 

Lady  Horleigh  smiled  with  bland  indulgence. 

"I  give  it  up,"  she  said,  with  an  air  that  palpably  pro- 
claimed riddles  as  being  beneath  her  consideration. 

"Why,  because  of  Adam,  you  see,"  Mrs.  Forbes  ex- 
plained, with  a  triumphant  smile. 

"Oh — yes,"  they  murmured,  vaguely. 

Tommy  continued  to  laugh  as  if  she  thought  it  ex- 
quisitely funny.  Tommy  was  given,  at  times,  to  these 
seizures.  She  had  found  "All  hollow"  a  preventive  on 
some  occasions;  now  it  had  failed  her. 

"I  think  a  good  riddle  rather  amusing  sometimes," 
Mrs.  Forbes  pleaded. 

"Oh  yes"  (Audrey  came  to  her  rescued,  "the  greatest 
minds  need  relaxation  at  times."  There  was  the  ghost  of 
her  old  demure  mischief  in  her  smile. 

From  Jimmy  came  a  clear  and  courteous  little: 
296 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"I  don't  understand  the  answer.  Will  you  explain  it, 
please  ?" 

Mrs.  Forbes  smiled  indulgently. 

"  Don't  you  see,  dear  ?  You  mean  one  can  have 
measles  twice  ?  But  it  is  hardly  usual,  and,  for  a  riddle, 
one  must  not  be  too  particular." 

"You  said,"  explained  Jimmy,  ruthlessly — she  had  had 
experience  of  Mrs.  Forbes'  riddles  before  this  —  "you 
said,  'Why  couldn't  Eve  have  the  measles?  Why,  be- 
cause of  Adam,  you  see.'  I  don't  understand." 

Mrs.  Forbes  grew  very  red. 

"Oh,  did  I  say  that  really?  How  very  silly!"  She 
laughed  nervously.  "I  meant  to  say,  of  course,  because 
she  had  got  Adam — I  mean,  because  she'd  'ad  'em!  Oh, 
dear,  I  am  silly  his  afternoon!" 

"Oh!"  said  Jimmy.     "I  see  now,  thank  you." 

"Ooh!"  gurgled  Tommy. 

"Your  cousin,  Mr.  Jocelyn,  is  not  staying  with  you 
now,  is  he  ?"  Miss  Morley  addressed  Jimmy,  with  a 
keep-your-distance  air. 

"No,"  said  Jimmy.  "Miss  Fenwick  says  she  expects 
he'll  go  and  shoot  big  game  now." 

Miss  Fenwick  was  their  governess. 

"Oh,  indeed!     Why  does  she  expect  that?" 

"I  don't  know.     She  says  they  always  do." 

Miss  Morley's  eye  lost  some  of  its  cold  intellectuality. 
She  fixed  her  glasses  on  her  nose — she  had  a  high-bridged 
nose  made  for  glasses — and  looked  at  Audrey. 

"There  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  the  shooting  theory," 
she  observed.  "A  little  danger,  and  the  phase  is  past 
and  done  with,  while  the — " 

Lady  Horleigh  interrupted,  blandly: 
297 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Is  Mrs.  Barrington  going  to  the  Marchmont's  'At 
Home,'  my  dear?" 

She  spoke  to  Audrey.  She  had  disapproved  strongly 
of  the  rumored  suggestion  of  a  marriage  between  her  and 
Martin.  She  held  old-fashioned  ideas  about  birth  and 
family;  but  now,  as  the  affair  had  evidently  fallen  through, 
owing  no  doubt  to  Martin's  good  sense,  or  perhaps  to 
Audrey's,  she  felt  kindly  disposed  to  the  latter,  and  in  her 
slow,  deep  voice  calmly  annihilated  Miss  Morley. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Professor  Forbes  entered 
the  room.  He  was  wearing  an  old  coat,  which  had  been 
black  once  and  was  now  green,  and  on  his  feet  were  a 
pair  of  carpet  slippers,  blue  with  gay  pink  roses  trailing 
about  his  toes. 

He  frowned  undisguisedly  when  he  saw  that  the  room 
was  full  of  people,  and  studied  his  watch  with  rude  sug- 
gestiveness. 

"Professor,"  Miss  Morley  began,  humbly,  "could  you  let 
me  have  a  copy  of  that  article  you  wrote  in  last  month's 
Science?  I  long  to  read  it.  I  have  heard  that  it  is  sim- 
ply wonderful!" 

"I  haven't  any  copies,  except  my  own.  I  always  keep 
one.  You  can  order  Science  from  Robinson's.  Martha, 
I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Mrs.  Forbes  glanced  from  one  to  another  with  scared 
apology. 

"Oh  yes,  Ambrose!  Certainly.  These  great  men,  you 
know — an  idea — so  precious — " 

The  visitors  departed,  so  quickly  does  rudeness  that  is 
sufficiently  courageous  achieve  its  end. 

Audrey,  in  obedience  to  a  glance  from  Mrs.  Forbes, 
stayed. 

298 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"I  am  on  the  eve,"  quoth  the  Professor,  as  the  door 
closed  behind  Lady  Horleigh,  "of  an  Immense  Discov- 
ery!" 

Mrs.  Forbes  fluttered.  Jimmy  and  Tommy  exchanged 
eager  glances.  The  Professor  ignored  them. 

"I  call  it  advisedly,  and  after  due  thought,  an  Immense 
Discovery.  I  am  not  given  to  the  thoughtless  use  of 
Words,  as  you  know,  Martha.  I  disapprove  of  the  Mod- 
ern Tendency  to  Slang  and  Exaggeration  in  Speech.  But, 
having  carefully  weighed  the  words,  I  still  declare  that  I 
am  on  the  eve  of  an  Immense  Discovery.  Come  with  me, 
Martha." 

She  followed  him,  looking  proud  and  anxious. 

"Will  you  wait  here  ?  I  want  to  send  a  message  to  Mrs. 
Barrington,"  she  whispered  to  Audrey. 

"  Please,  may  we  come  too,  Professor  Forbes  ?"  asked 
Jimmy. 

"Certainly  not!" 

"We'll  be  most  awfully  quiet." 

"Martha,  don't  allow  those  children  to  worry  me!" 

The  children  cut  capers  and  looked  supremely  pleased 
with  themselves. 

In  a  little  while  Mrs.  Forbes  returned.  The  flush  on  her 
face  had  grown  deeper  with  her  nervous  efforts  to  under- 
stand the  nature  of  the  Professor's  discovery  and  to  say 
the  right  thing  at  the  right  moment.  In  her  hand  she 
carried  something  with  an  air  of  supreme  care. 

"The  Professor  allowed  me  to  bring  just  one  to  show 
you." 

They  crowded  round.  Mrs.  Forbes  opened  her  hand 
and  disclosed — nothing. 

The  boys  laughed  hilariously, 
so  299 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"I've  dropped  it!  Oh,  my  dears,  don't  laugh!  Do 
help  me  to  find  it.  It  will  look  so  careless!  It  is  very 
precious.  I  can't  think  how  I  came  to  lose  it!  Don't 
make  a  noise!  Find  it  quickly,  if  you  can.  I  wouldn't 
have  the  Professor  know  for  worlds!" 

Jimmy  pounced  on  a  little  crumpled  rose-leaf  lying  in 
the  hall. 

"Here  it  is,  Mrs.  Forbes!" 

"Oh,  thank  you,  dear!  Oh,  thank  you.  Give  it  to  me. 
Now,  look,  Audrey!  Is  it  not  wonderful  ?" 

Audrey  looked.  She  saw  a  petal  of  a  Gloire  de  Dijon 
rose,  crumpled,  limp,  and  spotted  all  over  with  scarlet 
dots. 

"Oh,  how  horrid!  Poor  little  thing.  Is  it  some  new 
kind  of  blight  ?" 

Mrs.  Forbes  cast  her  a  glance  of  outraged  horror. 

"Blight!  It  is  an  Immense  Discovery!  You  do  not 
understand.  How  should  you  ?"  pityingly.  "  But  living 
with  a  mind  like  the  Professor's,  one  learns  to  appreciate 
the  Marvellous  Value  of  a  Discovery  like  this!  The 
thought  and  the — er — ingenuity  that — that — "  Her  mem- 
ory failed  her.  "He  sprayed  the  rose-bush  with  the  stuff 
he'd  madej  and  two  of  the  roses  have  blossomed  like  this!" 
she  finished,  with  a  sad  lack  of  style  and  polish.  She  was 
very  much  excited;  she  hurried  them  away  with  apologetic- 
references  to  the  notes  connected  with  the  Discovery  which 
she  must  begin  to  copy  out. 

When  they  were  in  the  hall  the  Professor  emerged  once 
more. 

"What!  still  here?"  he  said,  peevishly.  "Martha,  I 
want  you!" 

On  the  way  home  Audrey  shuddered. 
300 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Imagine  a  world  of  spotted  roses!" 

"You  needn't  worry,  dearest,"  Jimmy  assured  her, 
sweetly,  "it  was  only  —  red  ink!  Tommy  and  I  did  it 
this  morning." 

"We  were  up  in  his  apple-tree  yesterday,"  added  Tom- 
my, "and  we  heard  him  talking  a  lot  of  rubbish  to  Mrs. 
Forbes  about  some  old  smelly  chemical  he'd  made  that 
was  to  rev — rev — " 

"Revolutionize  the  World  of  Color,"  interpolated  Jim- 
my. "And  he  watered  the  rose-bush  with  some  of  the 
stuff,  you  see;  so  we  crept  down  there  this  morning  with  a 
bottle  of  red  ink  and  a  brush,  and  spotted  two  new  roses 
that  had  come  out  in  the  night." 

"So  that  was  why  you  wanted  to  come  with  me  this 
afternoon  ?"  Audrey  said. 

"Of  course,  dear,"  assented  Jimmy. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 


[ARCIA  called  to  see  Susan. 

She  knew  that  Audrey  was  out. 


m 

"I  am  going  to  Paris,"  she  said,  "and  I  want  to  know  if 
you  will  spare  Audrey,  and  let  her  come  with  us." 

There  was  a  pause. 

Susan  sat  erect,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap. 

"I  hope  the  change  of  air  and  scene  may  do  her  good," 
Marcia  went  on. 

"The  air  of  a  city  can't  be  so  good  as  the  air  here," 
Susan  replied. 

"Everything  will  be  new  and  strange  to  her,  her  mind 
will  be  distracted.  You  will  forgive  my  speaking  plainly, 
I  know,  but  I  think  that  if  something  is  not  done  she  will 
have  a  serious  illness." 

Directly  she  had  spoken  she  wished  she  had  not  said  it — 
and  there  had  been  no  need  to  say  it.  The  drawn  look  on 
the  odd  little  lined  face  before  her  told  her  that.  Susan 
had  seen,  had  understood.  She  might  have  known  that 
she  would.  Susan  said  nothing;  she  passed  it  over  with 
a  patience  that  made  Marcia  think  of  Audrey.  They  sat 
silent.  Marcia  understood  now  that  Susan  was  hesitating 
only  because  she  was  not  sure  if  the  plan  would  be  benefi- 
cial to  Audrey.  She  had  put  herself  aside. 

"I  believe,"  Marcia  said,  at  last,  very  gently,  "that  it 
would  be  good  for  her." 

302 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Very  well,"  Susan  said;  and  added,  wearily,  "It  is  very 
kind  of  you." 

"Oh  no,  we  love  to  have  her.  It  is  kind  of  you  to  let 
us  have  her." 

When  Marcia  had  gone  Susan  returned  to  the  parlor, 
and  sat  down  as  if  she  were  tired.  To  her  this  having  to 
let  Audrey  go  argued,  in  a  small  degree,  failure  on  her 
part.  The  morbid  self-analysis,  quite  foreign  to  her  nat- 
ure, and  induced  only  by  the  exceptional  circumstances 
attending  her  relationship  to  Audrey,  set  her  worrying 
furtively  over  the  surely  well-known  fact  that,  in  times  of 
trouble,  a  mother  should  be  first  with  her  child,  should  be 
her  best  help,  her  greatest  rest.  Yet  it  was  necessary  for 
Audrey's  health,  presumably  to  her  peace  of  mind,  to 
leave  her.  The  hurtful  thought  presented  itself:  "Would 
she  find  rest  with  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  ?" 

Amelia  put  her  head  round  the  door. 

"What  did  she  want,  Susan?" 

"Audrey  is  going  abroad  with  her." 

"Best  thing  she  can  do,  too!  And  she  ought  to  go  on 
the  Continent  anyway;  all  the  swells  do.  Maybe  one  of 
those  handsome,  dark-eyed  foreigners  '11  catch  her  poor 
heart  at  the  rebound,  as  they  say.  I'm  sure  I  hope  so, 
poor  lamb.  Only  she'd  best  be  careful,  and  her  so  inno- 
cent! They  do  say  the  men  on  the  Continent  are  terribly 
wicked  and  fascinating." 

"Audrey  isn't  a  fool." 

Susan  looked  with  distaste  at  Amelia.  Amelia  had 
grown  careless  lately  in  her  dress;  now  her  bodice  was 
hooked  crookedly;  at  the  throat  it  gaped;  even  her  curls 
hung  lank  and  limp,  obviously  not  having  been  curled 
the  night  before.  Her  vanity  was  failing  her,  and 

3°3 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Susan    did    not    understand    the    grave   import    of    the 
fact. 

"You  call  all  people  fools  who  have  soft  hearts,"  she 
complained. 

"And  heads,"  said  Susan,  shortly. 

"The  Almighty  made  women  soft  and  loving,"  Amelia 
argued,  mournfully.  "All  these  hussies  nowadays  aping 
men's  ways  aren't  women,  and  they  can't  be  men,  and 
so  they're  just  half  and  half — a  set  of  miserable  creatures 
who  are  never  really  happy.  Who  wants  them  ?  Men 
don't  want  to  marry  them;  women  don't  want  them  for 
friends.  They've  got  no  real  place  in  the  world  and  they 
know  it,  and  that's  why  they  make  such  a  noise  shouting 
for  their  rights.  They're  like  wild  beasts  roaring  for  their 
food." 

It  had  begun  to  rain.      Susan  was  looking  out  anxiously. 

"Audrey  will  be  wet." 

"She  don't  mind  the  rain.  She's  often  come  in  smiling 
like  a  flower  after  an  April  shower,"  said  Amelia,  poetically. 

But  Susan  knew  that  nowadays  Audrey  did  not  enjoy 
the  wet  and  cold;  she  shrank  from  them. 

She  came  in  presently.  The  keen  autumn  air  had 
given  her  no  bright  color;  she  looked  pinched  and  tired. 

"You  are  wet,"  Susan  said.  "You  must  change  your 
things." 

"I'm  not  very  wet."  She  shivered  as  she  spoke.  "It 
has  turned  very  cold  out,  Mother." 

"You  shouldn't  have  stayed  out  so  late.  Where  have 
you  been  ?" 

"Only  walking.     I  went  as  far  as  Chudleigh." 

"You  have  been  out  for  three  hours!  And  only  to 
Chudleigh!" 

3°4 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Mother,  but  my  legs  won't  work 
properly  lately.  And  there  is  such  a  strong  wind  to-day." 

A  strong  wind!  Susan  went  to  the  door,  and  peered 
through  the  dusk  to  where  from  a  cottage  chimney  the 
smoke  rose  almost  in  a  perpendicular  line.  Audrey  called 
the  slight  breeze,  that  puffed  out  little  offshoots  of  the 
smoke  now  and  then,  a  strong  wind.  Susan  sighed 
heavily. 

When  Audrey  came  down  she  found  tea  ready  and 
Susan  waiting  for  her. 

"Oh,  how  nice,  Mother!     It's  early,  this  afternoon." 

"I  thought  you'd  be  cold." 

"Tea  will  soon  warm  me.  And  my  favorite  little 
scones!  You  spoil  me,  Mother.  Isn't  Amelia  coming  in  ?" 

"No;  she  never  does  now,  you  know." 

"I  had  forgotten.     Why  do  you  think  it  is?" 

"I  don't  know.  She  likes  to  sit  over  the  kitchen  fire 
and  drink  tea  all  day  long." 

"  Poor  Amelia,  she  has  never  been  really  well  since  she 
had  influenza." 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  her  except  idleness. 
Audrey,  I  have  a  piece  of  good  news  for  you." 

"Yes,  Mother?" 

"Mrs.  Barrington  was  here  this  afternoon.  She  came 
to  ask  me  if  I  would  let  you  go  abroad  with  her — to  Paris, 
first — and  I  agreed." 

"Must  I  go,  Mother?" 

"You  don't  want  to  go?" 

Audrey  shook  her  head. 

"I  would  sooner  stay  here  with  you.     Need  I  go?" 

Susan's  eyes  were  searching  as  they  rested  on  the  wist- 
ful face. 

3°5 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"I  thought  you  would  be  glad,"  she  said. 

"No.     Let  me  stay  here  with  you,  Mother." 

Susan  did  not  answer  at  once.  There  was  a  great 
thankfulness  in  her  heart,  but  it  ached  over  Audrey,  too. 

"It  is  for  your  health,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  Mother,  I  am  quite  well  and  strong!  It  is  only 
this  sudden  cold  weather  makes  me  look  pale.  Mother, 
I  like  to  be  at  home — quite  quiet — with  only  you — best 
of  all.  Let  me  stay.  I — I  have  been  moping  and  self- 
ish. I  will  try  to  be  different — 

"Don't,  Audrey!     No!  it  isn't  that." 

"You  think" — the  words  came  haltingly — "I — may 
forget — if  I  see  new  things — and  people.  I  shall  never 
forget,  Mother." 

There  was  a  quiet  strength  in  her  voice  that,  for  a  mo- 
ment, made  Susan  realize  the  greatness  of  her  love  for 
Martin.  She  looked  at  her  hopelessly. 

"But  I  will  try  more,  Mother.  It's  only — that  I  can't 
sleep  very  well — and  eating  has  grown  so  difficult  some- 
how. I  needn't  go,  need  I  ?" 

But  in  that  moment  of  realization  all  Susan's  fears  for 
her  had  taken  on  an  added  sharpness. 

"You  must,"  she  said,  strenuously — "you  must." 

Audrey  looked  at  her  wearily. 

"Very  well,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

ONE  morning  Amelia  did  not  get  up.  When  Susan 
went  up  to  her  room  she  found  her  in  bed  crying. 

"I'm  ill,"  Amelia  sobbed.  "I  feel  that  low-spirited 
and  miserable.  I  dreamed  all  night  of  a  corpse  laid  out. 
I'll  never  get  up  again.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones." 

"Of  course  you  won't  if  you  insist  on  lying  there," 
Susan  said.  "Don't  be  ridiculous,  Amelia!  Get  up  at 
once!" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  frightened  of  you  any  more!  You  can't 
harm  a  poor  dead  person,  and  that's  what  I  shall  be  soon. 
I  ache  all  over  my  body,  and  my  throat's  sore.  If  it 
hadn't  been  that  I  always  had  such  a  spirit  I'd  have  been 
in  my  bed  long  ago.  And  here  I  am  now,  and  here  I 
stay  till  I  die,  Susan  Fielding!" 

Later  Susan  sent  for  Dr.  Lawson. 

He  pronounced  Amelia  to  be  suffering  from  another 
attack  of  influenza. 

"Keep  her  in  bed  for  the  present,  and  cheer  her  up 
as  far  as  possible.  She  is  very  low-spirited — a  common 
feature  in  influenza — excessive  depression.  Her  heart  is 
weaker  than  I  like.  Ah,  well,  cheer  her  up,  cheer  her  up!" 

Susan  stood  watching  him  go  down  the  path  to  the 
gate,  her  mouth  twisted  in  an  ironical  smile.  She  to 
cheer  any  one  up!  At  the  gate  he  turned  and  came  back. 

"J  was  nearly  forgetting  Miss  Audrey.  How  is  she 
3°7 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

getting  on  ?  She  likes  Paris  ?  A  beautiful  city.  She 
was  looking  very  pale  and  run  down.  Queer  how  young 
girls  get  run  down  for  no  reason —  ?"  He  paused  on  the 
word  inquisitively,  but,  receiving  no  satisfaction,  repeated 
"no  reason  at  all!  She — er — writes  to  you,  I  suppose?" 

Susan,  with  an  instinct  to  defend  Audrey,  found  her 
tongue. 

"Oh  yes,  she  writes  very  often,  in  spite  of  her  time 
being  so  taken  up.  She  is  going  everywhere  and  seeing 
everything.  Her  letters  are  full  of  all  the  wonderful  things 
she  is  seeing — churches  and  pictures  and  palaces.  She 
says  she  is  having  a  beautiful  time." 

"Urn — ah — yes!"  He  stood  staring  down  at  the  ground, 
his  mind  full  of  conjectures. 

"Well,  good-morning!"  He  roused  himself  at  last,  and 
went  away  dissatisfied. 

Amelia  grew  more  cheerful  as  the  day  wore  on;  she 
dearly  loved  the  importance  attached  to  invalidism.  She 
found  a  great  satisfaction  in  keeping  up  a  continual  mourn- 
ful monologue  consisting  of  reminiscences  of  the  last  illness 
of  various  defunct  relatives  and  friends.  That  Susan 
neither  listened  nor  heard  in  no  wise  affected  her  garru- 
lity. Susan  was  there,  sitting  in  the  window,  working, 
and  that  was  enough  for  Amelia's  convenience.  She  en- 
tirely failed  to  see  the  tragedy  that  lurked  in  the  feverish 
hurry  of  Susan's  needle;  she  did  not  see  the  tenseness  in 
the  stiff  attitude  of  Susan's  thin  figure;  she  never  noticed 
that  as  the  times  for  the  two  posts — morning  and  evening — 
drew  near,  Susan  became  almost  rigid  in  her  determina- 
tion not  to  give  way  to  the  restlessness  that  consumed  her, 
and  which  found  its  only  expression  in  the  unnatural  bright- 
ness of  her  eyes.  She  lived  only  for  the  posts  in  those  days 

308 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

when  Audrey  was  away;  she  was  waiting  always  to  know 
how  Audrey  was.  Marcia,  in  her  thoughtfulness,  wrote 
several  times;  Susan  read  and  reread  the  scanty  lines, 
striving  to  read  hope  into  them.  There  was  so  httle  to 
say.  .  .  .  "She  seems  very  much  interested  in  the  new  life 
about  her,  but  she  still  tires  very  easily.  .  .  .  Her  appetite 
has  been  a  little  better  the  last  few  days.  .  .  .  She  says  she 
is  enjoying  it  all  immensely.  ...  A  spell  of  unnatural  heat 
has  taken  away  her  appetite  and  pulled  her  down  a  good 
deal,  but  she  assures  me  she  feels  quite  all  right.  .  .  .  She 
is  always  bright  and  cheerful.  .  .  ." 

That  was  all — meagre  little  sentences  that  brought  with 
them  no  reassurance.  Susan  knew  Audrey  well  enough  to 
fail  to  get  any  satisfaction  from  those  letters. 

Audrey's  own  letters  were  dutiful  descriptions  of  pict- 
ures and  places  and  people,  punctuated  at  correct  inter- 
vals with  remarks  anent  her  great  enjoyment  of  them  and 
her  good  appetite.  There  was  no  heart  in  the  carefully 
phrased  sentences;  all  through  them  Susan  read  duty — 
duty- — duty. 

Strangely  enough  she  bore  no  malice  to  Hilary  Jocelyn. 
To  her,  his  attitude  was  natural  enough;  he  wanted  the 
best  for  his  son,  and  he  did  not  consider  John  Fielding's 
daughter  the  best,  that  was  all.  It  was  very  simple.  She 
could  conceive  herself  acting  in  the  same  way  under  similar 
circumstances.  It  was  right  that  man  or  woman  should 
fight  for  his  or  her  child;  it  was  a  law  of  nature,  one  of  the 
laws  planted  deep  and  strong  in  the  human  soul,  and  it 
never  struck  her  to  question  its  justice. 

She  found  it  more  difficult  to  understand  Audrey  at  this 
time.  She  understood,  from  sheer  love,  how  the  child 
was  suffering,  but  she  did  not  understand  the  cause  of  her 

3°9 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

suffering.  She  had  realized  now  that  this  was  no  slight 
and  passing  ailment,  such  as  the  small  physical  ills  through 
which  Audrey  had  passed;  but  she  would  never  sound  the 
depths  of  the  child's  love  for  Martin.  But  she  respected 
her  grief;  she  did  not  allow  her  sympathy  to  encroach; 
from  her  own  reserved  nature  she  realized  acutely  the 
reserve  of  Audrey's,  and  Audrey  found  her  restful,  sym- 
pathetic— she  felt  drawn  more  closely  to  her  mother  now 
than  she  had  ever  felt  before. 

For  Susan  there  was  always,  pushed  to  the  back  of  her 
mind,  the  hideous  thought  that  Amelia  had  invoked  that 
afternoon  in  her  tearful  remorse.  Susan  fought  it  still; 
she  told  herself  again,  on  the  occasions  when  it  refused  to 
be  pushed  from  consideration,  that  she  would  see  Audrey 
dead  sooner  than  give  her  up.  Yet  the  thought  was  terri- 
ble to  her;  the  knowledge  that,  if  she  would,  she  might 
bring  back  life  and  joy  to  her  child,  and  that  she  refused 
to  do  it,  ate  into  her  very  heart.  It  poisoned  her  days  and 
nights;  drove  sleep  from  her;  turned  life  into  one  long, 
bitter  struggle.  Wearily  she  used  the  old,  old  argument 
— no  one  could  be  sure  that  Audrey  was  not  her  child. 
The  fact  that  her  baby  had  altered  so  much  in  those  long 
weeks  when  she  had  known  no  one  counted  for  nothing. 
She  had  been  a  poor  little  delicate  thing  only  six  weeks 
old  when  they  had  sailed  from  America.  The  long  weeks 
of  her  own  illness,  spent  in  the  beautiful  air  of  that  Irish 
village,  had  made  the  baby  wax  fat  and  big,  strong  and 
healthy,  that  was  all.  It  was  quite  natural  that  she  should 
have  altered.  If  she  had  not  been  her  child  she  would 
have  known.  She  must  have  known.  A  woman  could 
not  help  knowing.  The  clothes  had  been  washed  up  on 
to  the  beach. 

310 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

All  the  old  weary  arguments,  so  old  that  they  were 
rapidly  losing  all  power  of  lightening,  even  momentarily, 
the  load  she  always  carried — had  carried  for  nearly  twenty 
years.  She  clung  to  them  with  a  sort  of  mechanical 
clutching  at  any  hope,  born  of  long  usage  of  them;  she 
could  not  let  them  go — she  could  not  afford  to  let  them 
go,  but  they  no  longer  helped  her.  The  one  argument, 
which  really  was  no  argument  at  all,  and  to  which  she 
invariably  reverted  in  passionate  revolt,  was  couched  in 
terse  and  simple  language:  "She  is  mine.  I  feel  it." 

Even  now  it  brought  her  a  momentary  relief:  it  was  so 
strong  in  its  jealous  certainty  that  it  helped  her  even  after 
its  constant  use  for  all  these  years.  Her  brain,  wearily 
going  over  and  over  all  the  other  time-worn  arguments, 
held  unconsciously  this  last  one  in  reserve;  it  was  always 
there,  fighting  that  other  thought  of  self-renunciation,  seek- 
ing with  guilty  plausibility  to  prove  the  idea  of  the  renun- 
ciation impossible. 

As  the  days  wore  on  Amelia  lay  in  bed  in  a  sort  of 
maudlin  content.  Her  appetite  was  bad,  but  she  was  still 
sufficiently  greedy  to  eat  when  she  was  not  hungry,  so 
that  on  the  whole  she  ate  fairly  well.  The  food  really 
gave  her  no  pleasure,  but  she  found  it  difficult  to  break 
herself  of  a  life-long  habit.  She  wept  sometimes,  because 
all  food  was  tasteless  to  her  now,  but  she  made  an  effort 
to  eat  it.  She  made  no  effort  in  any  other  direction;  the 
weak  slackness  that  had  been  always  a  large  part  of  her 
nature  had  grown  upon  her  lately,  and  now  it  culmi- 
nated in  a  lachrymose  inertia  that  Susan  found  extremely 
trying.  She  was  quite  incapable,  too,  of  understanding 
it:  to  her  strong  nature  it  was  quite  inexplicable. 

Amelia  had  ceased  to  take  any  interest  in  her  personal 
3" 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

appearance;  the  curls  straggled  untidily  across  her  brow. 
When  she  cried  she  did  not,  as  a  rule,  trouble  to  wipe  away 
the  tears.  She  lay  limp  and  lachrymose,  and  enjoyed  a 
sort  of  negative  happiness.  Then  a  change  came  over 
her;  the  inertia  was  stirred  by  some  worrying  thought. 
She  had  been  talking  of  her  approaching  death  for  days, 
till  her  maudlin  complacency  over  the  thought  of  her  own 
decease  and  funeral  irritated  Susan  beyond  control.  She 
turned  on  her  sharply  at  last. 

"You  seem  pretty  sure  that  you're  going  straight  to 
heaven." 

Amelia  had  been  saying,  contentedly,  that  she  would 
like  to  see  the  rector. 

"It's  only  right  I  should,"  she  had  said.  "My  mother 
used  to  have  beautiful  talks  with  the  rector  before  she 
died.  I  like  everything  done  proper  and  nice,  and  I 
always  had  a  way  with  me  about  religion.  I  can  talk 
about  the  Bible  folk  and  heaven  as  well  as  any  one." 
•  It  was  then  that  Susan  broke  in  sharply. 

Her  words  roused  Amelia.  The  red  color  surged  slowly 
into  her  pale  face,  her  heavy  eyes  lost  their  sleepy  content 
— they  grew  startled. 

"  I've  never  done  anything  wicked,"  she  said.  But  there 
was  a  new  note  in  her  voice;  memory  was  piercing  through 
the  heavy  veil  of  complacency. 

"It's  well  to  be  you,  then,"  Susan  said,  curtly. 

Amelia  did  not  answer.  Her  flow  of  words  seemed 
suddenly  dried  at  their  source.  Her  eyes  followed  Susan 
as  she  moved  about  the  room,  putting  it  in  order.  All  that 
day  she  was  strangely  silent;  for  the  first  time  she  made 
no  attempt  to  eat  the  food  Susan  brought  to  her.  Her 
calmness  had  vanished;  she  turned  restlessly  in  her  bed, 

312 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

moving  her  head  from  side  to  side.  When  Dr.  Lawson 
came  the  next  morning  he  found  her  worse. 

"You  are  worrying  again,"  he  said,  kindly. 

The  ready  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

"  I'm  so  timid,  doctor!  I  always  was  so  sensitive,  and  if 
I  go  to  my  grave  without  confessing,  it  won't  be  my  fault, 
but  the  fault  of  them  who  are  so  hard  on  a  poor  woman, 
who  never  would  harm  a  black-beetle  knowingly — 

"Tell  me  your  trouble.  It  will  ease  your  mind.  Come 
now,  what  is  it  ?  Something  not  very  bad,  I  feel  sure. 
Come,  now.  Let  me  help  you." 

"You're  very  kind."  She  hesitated,  her  eyes  looking 
from  him  to  Susan,  who  was  standing  stiff  and  still  beside 
the  bed. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "I  dare 
say  I  can  ease  your  mind." 

"Well—" 

Susan's  voice  broke  in,  sharply,  insistently: 

"  Isn't  it  the  rector  you  want,  Amelia  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know—" 

"Your  mother  had  the  rector  to  talk  to,  you  remem- 
ber. It  is  the  custom  to  have  a  clergyman,  Amelia." 

Amelia's  thoughts  were  turned  into  a  new  channel. 
Susan's  figure  relaxed  suddenly  into  a  tired  stoop. 

"Yes,  I'll  have  the  rector.  My  mother  had  beautiful 
long  talks  with  her  vicar  before  she  died.  We  used  to 
sit  round  and  listen;  it  was  just  like  being  in  church. 
And  the  texts  she  had  at  her  finger-ends!  Doctor,  you'd 
never  believe!  Beautiful  it  was  to  hear  how  she'd  fit  a 
Bible  text  onto  everything  that  was  said.  I've  a  way, 
too,  with  religious  conversation.  Yes,  I'll  have  a  long  talk 
with  the  rector." 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Susan  went  with  the  doctor  down-stairs.  He  looked 
serious,  and  shook  his  head  several  times,  uttering  vague 
remarks  about  a  surprising  lack  of  stamina,  a  seriously 
low  vitality  reacting  on  her  heart.  Susan  hardly  heard 
him;  she  was  not  capable  just  then  of  clear  attention. 
When  he  had  gone  she  stayed  down-stairs  awhile;  she  felt 
that  she  must  think,  that  she  could  not  go  back  to  Amelia 
yet.  She  told  herself,  with  feverish  fervQr,  that  Amelia 
could  have  nothing  to  say  to  him  that  would  hurt  her  or 
Audrey.  She  told  herself  so  over  and  over  again.  She 
could  only  have  suspicions  that  no  one  could  prove  to 
be  true.  But  she  braced  herself  for  fresh  battle;  Amelia 
must  not  see  the  rector.  She  trembled  at  the  thought 
that  she  might,  by  her  action,  be  damning  a  human  soul; 
but,  trembling,  she  took  up  the  fresh  burden,  and  wore  it 
with  unyielding  determination.  She  did  not  seek  to  hide 
from  herself  the  nature  of  the  thing  she  was  doing;  to  her 
it  was  a  terrible  sin,  but  she  did  not  hesitate.  Amelia 
must  not  see  the  rector. 

Going  up-stairs  again,  she  put  her  off  with  vague  replies, 
and  Amelia  kept  up  a  constant  talk  of  her  mother's  con- 
versations on  her  death-bed  and  her  own  sinfulness,  over 
which  she  wept.  She  was  not  delirious,  but  her  mind 
was  weak,  and  she  comforted  herself  a  good  deal  by 
concocting  the  beautiful  things  she  should  say  to  the 
rector  when  he  called.  She  continually  carried  on  aloud 
a  one-sided  conversation. 

"Mr.  Southey,  yes,  we  are  all  miserable  sinners — good 
Lord,  deliver  us!  The  Prayer-book  tells  us  so.  And  the 
Bible,  too.  'There  is  none  that  doeth  good,  no,  not  one.' 
But  I  never  meant  to  do  any  harm,  and  I've  suffered — 
'A  merry  heart  maketh  a  cheerful  countenance,'  and 

3H 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

my  countenance  is  sad  and  wet  with  tears — "  Then  she 
called  to  Susan  and  asked  for  her  Bible. 

"I  must  get  some  more  texts  ready.  I  find  I've  for- 
gotten my  Bible  a  bit  lately.  I  can't  carry  on  a  proper 
conversation  with  the  rector  unless  I  look  them  up  first." 

She  had  forgotten  her  uneasiness  again  by  now;  she 
was  full  of  the  strange  vanity  that  saw  no  further  than 
the  one  idea  of  enacting  her  part  correctly  before  the 
rector. 

Susan  found  herself  eying  her  with  a  vague  surprise; 
she  would  never  have  expected  Amelia  to  meet  death  in 
that  spirit — Amelia,  who  was  such  a  coward.  She  did  not 
understand  that  Amelia's  shallow  nature  had  not  yet 
realized  the  idea  of  death;  that  she  was  only  occupied 
with  the  trappings  of  death,  as  it  were;  and  for  all  her 
talk  of  her  own  decease,  never  went  beyond  the  thought 
of  proper  discourse,  a  grand  funeral,  plenty  of  flowers, 
never  realizing  for  a  moment  that  the  corpse  beneath  the 
flowers  would  be  herself;  that  she  would  be  gone,  would 
know  nothing  of  mourners,  flowers,  or  funeral  horses. 
This  want  of  realization  gave,  as  it  so  often  does,  a  wrong 
idea  of  courage,  of  fortitude  to  meet  what  the  future 
might  hold.  And  Susan,  in  a  vague  way,  was  surprised. 

The  next  afternoon  Amelia  was  asleep,  and  Susan  went 
down  into  the  kitchen  to  make  her  some  gruel.  She  was 
very  tired,  and  her  weary  thoughts  fastened  with  cruel 
relentlessness  on  her  unrested  mind,  so  that  she  stood 
staring  for  a  while  down  at  the  gruel  she  was  stirring,  deaf 
to  all  outside  sounds.  It  was  at  that  moment  that  the 
rector  came  slowly  up  the  path  to  the  house.  His  lower 
lip  was  stuck  out  in  a  childish  sort  of  self-pity;  he  was  an 
old  man  now,  who  passed  his  life  chiefly  in  his  study  dozing 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

over  books  and  old  sermons  which  he  had  preached  so 
often  that  his  parishioners  could  sleep  through  them  with 
the  comfortable  assurance  that  they  would  miss  no  new 
germ  of  thought.  Moreover,  their  consciences  could  not 
upbraid  them,  since  even  the  strictest  conscience  could 
not  desire  them  to  do  more  than  be  able  to  quote  from 
the  sermon  over  their  Sunday  dinners,  and  they  could 
do  that  with  ease  now  from  listening  to  the  first 
heading. 

To-day  the  old  rector  had  been  dragged  from  a  com- 
fortable fire,  a  dish  of  walnuts,  and  a  book  to  walk  two 
miles  to  see  Amelia  Harris.  He  could  not  remember  who 
Amelia  Harris  was;  his  mind  groped  dimly  over  the  old 
women  to  whom  he  gave  tea,  but  he  was  very  cold  and 
very  tired,  and  he  could  not  remember.  He  tapped  with 
his  stick  on  the  door;  then,  quickened  into  activity  by 
the  sight  of  a  fire  through  a  window,  he  pushed  the  door 
open  and  went  in.  With  a  childish  smile  of  pleasure  he 
ambled  into  the  parlor,  and  held  out  his  hands  to  the 
warmth  of  the  fire. 

He  stood  there  for  a  few  minutes,  his  thoughts  back  in 
the  book  he  had  been  reading.  It  was  not  a  book  he  read 
in  public:  it  was  called  The  Vengeance  of  Red-handed 
Mike.  During  the  last  few  years  the  rector  had  indulged 
a  latent  taste  for  extremely  sensational  fiction,  till  it  had 
developed  into  a  guilty  passion.  The  poor  old  man  had 
hiding-places  all  round  his  study,  where  were  secreted 
various  highly  colored  paper-covered  shilling  shockers. 
Now  he  was  longing  to  be  back  in  his  study,  to  discover 
what  Mike  had  done  with  the  dead  body.  He  roused 
himself  with  a  sigh  and  a  furtive  glance  round  the  room; 
then  he  went  quietly  up  the  stairs,  and  knocked  at  the 

316 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

only  door  that  was  shut.  A  voice  bade  him  "Come  in!" 
and  he  went  in. 

Amelia  peered  round  at  him  excitedly;  she  was  alone 
in  the  room.  "Oh,  Mr.  Southey,  I'm  very  near  the  end 
of  this  vale  of  tears,  but  I  didn't  expect  you  just  yet." 
She  glanced  aggrieved  at  the  Bible  lying  on  the  counter- 
pane; she  had  meant  to  commit  many  more  texts  to  her 
memory  before  he  should  pay  his  visit. 

"You  are  ill,"  he  said,  vaguely. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Southey,  but  suffering  is  the  lot  of  mankind, 
not  to  mention  womenkind,  'for  men  must  work  and 
women  must  weep,'"  Amelia  rambled  on,  somewhat 
mixed;  "I  have  wept  like  Rachel  weeping  for  her  chil- 
dren." The  word  "children"  seemed  to  bring  back  her 
memory.  "I  want  to  unburden  my  soul,"  she  said,  and 
as  she  said  it  Susan  came  into  the  room. 

"Amelia  should  be  asleep."  She  faced  the  rector,  her 
breath  coming  quickly,  as  if  she  had  been  running. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will  go,"  he  agreed,  but  Amelia  called  him 
back. 

"I  want  to  unburden  my  soul!"  she  cried.  "I  am  a 
miserable  sinner!  Good  Lord,  deliver  us!" 

The  rector  pulled  himself  together,  and  sat  down  be- 
side the  bed.  He  took  her  hand  gently. 

"The  Lord  is  very  merciful,"  he  said. 

"I  am  a  miserable  sinner.  We  beseech  Thee  to  hear 
us,  good  Lord.  I  thought  it  was  all  for  the  best — I  did 
evil  that  good  might  come,  and  I  was  frightened.  I  al- 
ways was  timid.  He  said  to  me  once,  'You're  a  little 
mouse,  Amelia.'  Oh,  he  used  to  say  sweet  things  to  me, 
and  me  so  innocent  and  drinking  them  all  in  as  Gospel 
truth —  She  fell  to  weeping  so  that  she  could  not  go  on. 

31? 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Susan  said,  stiffly: 

"She  ought  not  to  be  excited.  She  ought  to  be  left 
alone."  But  she  said  it  without  particular  force;  her 
powers  of  thought,  of  acting,  were  numbed  by  the  shock 
of  finding  the  rector  there.  The  rector  stroked  Amelia's 
hand  and  talked  to  her  with  vague  gentleness. 

"'They  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,'"  said  Amelia, 
and  Susan  started  forward. 

"Won't  you  go  now?  The  doctor  said  she  was  to  be 
kept  quiet.  You  are  doing  her  harm — " 

"She  is  afraid  of  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you!"  cried 
Amelia,  her  face  suddenly  grown  spiteful.  "Oh,  she 
knows!  I've  always  had  my  doubts,  seeing  as  it's  only 
natural  a  mother  should  know  if  a  child  was  hers  or  not! 
Oh,  I'm  not  the  only  one  who's  sinned,  for  all  some  folk 
hold  their  heads  so  high,  and  have  no  mercy  on  poor 
frightened  creatures  who  wouldn't  harm  a  black-beetle 
knowingly!  'Pride  goeth  before  destruction!'  You  can't 
get  away  from  the  Bible.  Pride  always  has  a  fall,  Susan 
Fielding,  and  now  you'll  have  to  'bend  your  head  be- 
neath the  yoke.'" 

"Do  not  excite  yourself,"  the  rector  said.  "Calm 
yourself.  Turn  your  thoughts  into  a  quiet  channel  of 
reflection." 

"She  is  doing  herself  harm,"  Susan  reiterated. 

"You  are  afraid  of  me,  Susan!  You  know  what  I  can 
tell  about  the  child — 

The  words  goaded  Susan.  She  turned  suddenly  upon 
the  troubled  old  man  sitting  huddled  in  his  chair,  anx- 
iously seeking  after  the  gentle  platitudes  with  which  he 
had  soothed  the  few  sick-beds  in  his  parish  for  the  last 
several  years. 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Go  home!"  she  said,  her  intensity  taking  all  rude- 
ness from  her  words.  "Do  you  understand?  You  will 
kill  her!  You  can  come  another  time  when  she  is  calmer. 
Go  home  now!"  He  rose  with  alacrity,  his  vague  mind 
grateful  for  any  definite  lead. 

"I  want  to  unburden  my  soul!"  Amelia  cried.  "She's 
a  wicked  woman,  I  tell  you!  Her  guilty  conscience  is 
troubling  her!  'A  virtuous  woman  is  a  crown  to  her 
husband.'  She  wasn't  a  crown  to  him — or  hasn't  been 
since  his  death!  And  I  was  only  a  simple  young  girl. 
'Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart.'" 

The  rector,  murmuring  soothing  remarks,  was  sidling 
towards  the  door.  Amelia's  vagueness  suddenly  disap- 
peared. Her  face  scarlet  with  spite  and  anger  at  his 
going,  she  screamed  out: 

"She  isn't  her  child!  She  knows  it  as  well  as  I  do! 
Audrey  isn't  her  child,  I  tell  you!  .  .  ." 

The  rector  was  old,  and  not  very  firm  upon  his  feet. 
He  had  paused  instinctively  at  Amelia's  scream,  but  he 
found  himself  the  next  moment  outside  the  closed  door 
and  being  led  down  the  stairs  by  Susan's  firm  hand. 

At  the  foot  he  paused,  and  looked  back  hesitatingly. 
Susan  spoke  calmly  through  white  lips. 

"She  is  delirious,"  she  said. 

He  nodded  several  times. 

"I  will  come  again.  I  can  do  no  good  now.  Curious 
hallucination,  very  curious." 

"Delirious  minds  always  have  curious  hallucinations," 
she  said. 

"Yes,  yes!  They  do!  Very  curious.  You  are  keep- 
ing well  yourself?  Nursing  is  very  tiring.  Good-after- 
noon." 

3*9 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

She  watched  him  go  with  his  little  mincing  step  down 
the  path.  Then  she  shut  the  door,  bolting  it  this  time, 
and  went  back  up  the  stairs  to  Amelia's  room.  She  was 
going  to  hear  now  all  that  Amelia  knew;  she  would  face 
it  all.  She  must  know.  It  was  curious  that  as  she 
went  up  the  stairs  she  seemed  to  smell  suddenly'a  faint 
mustiness.  Before  her  eyes  there  stood  out,  on  a  yellowed 
page,  with  the  long  '  s's '  that  had  so  worried  her: 
"  .  .  .  Doubt  a  Greater  Mischief  than  Despair."  Well, 
she  would  know  soon  now.  Amelia's  tone  had  rung  with 
the  certainty  of  knowledge:  Amelia  knew.  There  would 
be  no  more  Doubt;  she  braced  herself  to  meet  Despair. 
Amelia  glanced  at  her  sharply  when  she  entered  the 
room,  then  cowered  down  into  the  pillows. 

Susan  came  close  to  her,  and  stood  looking  down  at 
her. 

She  said,  in  a  level  voice: 

"You're  to  tell  me  what  you  meant  just  now." 

Amelia  began  to  shiver  and  cry. 

"I  didn't  mean  any  harm!  A  woman  has  to  cleanse 
herself  of  her  secret  sins  before  she  dies!  And  it  '11  be 
better  for  Audrey  anyway — " 

"Tell  me  what  you  meant!" 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  We're  all  alone  in  the 
house,  and  how  do  I  know  you  won't  murder  me  ?  I 
meant  to  tell  you  when  I  came  here  years  ago.  I  only 
came  for  that;  I  didn't  mean  to  stay.  I  meant  to  ask  you 
to  lend  me  enough  money  to  go  back  to  my  uncle  in 
America.  I  hadn't  thought  about  you  knowing  then. 
I'd  forgotten  that  a  mother  would  be  bound  to  know. 
But  I  soon  guessed.  I  wasn't  sure,  but  I  thought  you'd 
seen  she  wasn't  yours — and  then  I  got  frightened.  I 

320 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

thought  you'd  be  so  angry  you'd  never  give  me  my  pas- 
sage-money. I  thought  you'd  turn  me  out — me,  a  simple 
young  girl  whose  heart  was  broken,  and  all  her  money 
gone  in  finery  to  try  and  soften  his  wicked  heart,  before 
I  believed  he  was  a  married  man.  How  was  I  to  believe 
he  could  be  so  wicked  ?  Me — 

"Never  mind  that.     Tell  me  at  once." 

"I'm  frightened  of  you,  Susan!  All  my  life  I've  bean 
that  timid.  And  p'raps  you  didn't  know  she  wasn't 
yours,  after  all,  or  weren't  certain  anyway.  That  was 
what  always  stopped  me  telling  you.  I  tried  to  f.nd  out. 
I  used  to  listen  when  there  was  a  storm,  to  try  and  find 
out  what  you  did  up  in  your  room.  You  always  shut 
yourself  up  through  a  storm.  A  guilty  conscience,  I  said. 
I  suffered  a  lot,  first,  through  his  cruelty — " 

"Tell  me!     Do  you  hear  ?     Tell  me  at  once!" 

Her  almost  brutal  lack  of  sympathy,  her  inexorability, 
suddenly  goaded  Amelia  into  a  spurious  burst  of  courage. 

"All  right,  I'll  tell  you!  You  know  well  enough  she 
isn't  your  child,  in  spite  of  her  clothes!  I'm  sure  of  it! 
Other  people  might  be  deceived,  but  her  own  mother  'd 
have  to  know."  Then  lapsing  again  into  her  rambling 
monologue,  she  went  on:  "How  were  that  poor  Alice, 
who  was  drowned,  and  me  to  know  that  we'd  be  wrecked 
that  night  ?  Just  two  young  girls  fond  of  an  innocent 
bit  of  fun,  who'd  no  thought  of  harm — 

Susan  stood,  staring  down  at  her;  the  pressure  she  was 
putting  upon  herself  was  terrible;  she  realized  that  only 
by  leaving  Amelia  to  tell  her  tale  in  her  own  way  would 
she  ever  hear  it  in  its  entirety.  So  she  stood  there  motion- 
less, though  Amelia's  first  words  had  sent  the  blood  surg- 
ing through  her  veins;  had  set  her  heart  beating,  her  head 

321 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

throbbing,  so  that  the  contrast  between  her  inner  turmoil 
and  her  outer  stillness  had  something  terrifying  about  it 
that  Amelia  vaguely  felt  and  resented. 

"Don't  stand  so  near!"  she  cried,  fretfully.  "Go  away, 
or  I  can't  talk!" 

Susan  moved  stiffly  and  slowly  away  to  the  window. 

The  short  afternoon  \vas  growing  into  a  dark,  stormy 
evening.  To  Susan  the  great  gray  clouds  moving  sulkily 
before  the  rising  wind  were  the  sea.  She  was  even  con- 
scious of  a  hope  that  the  red  sun  setting  stormily  in  the 
west  would  not  send  its  rays  over  into  that  sea — red  in  a 
gray  sea.  She  wanted  Amelia  to  go  on;  wanted  it  so  ter- 
ribly that  she,  quietest  of  women,  almost  screamed  her 
want  aloud.  And  she  dared  say  nothing.  So  much — 
everything — rested  with  the  tearful-eyed  woman  lying  in 
bed  staring  vaguely  at  the  window!  A  wrong  word  might 
seal  her  weak  and  obstinate  lips. 

Susan  clinched  her  hands  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

"Where  was  I  ?"  Amelia  muttered. 

"'Two  young  girls  fond  of  an  innocent  bit  of  fun,'" 
Susan  prompted,  in  a  labored  sort  of  way. 

"That  was  me  and  Alice.  Great  friends  we  were, 
her  having  a  young  man  in  England  too,  and  only  taking 
the  place  as  nurse  because  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  paid  so 
well  and  was  coming  to  England.  She'd  been  a  nursery 
governess  before  that,  she  told  me,  which  is  what  any 
lady  might  be,  I'm  sure."  Amelia  had  settled  down  into 
a  sort  of  complacent  content  over  her  reminiscences;  for 
the  moment  she  seemed  strangely  oblivious  of  their  mean- 
ing to  Susan,  strangely  careless.  It  was  as  if  she  con- 
sidered that  with  that  cry  to  the  rector  she  had  done  and 

322 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

faced  the  worst,  and  was  now  merely  putting  in  interest- 
ing details. 

"Very  genteel  she  was,  and  the  stories  she  told  me 
about  that  woman!  And  her  never  coming  near  her  baby, 
though  the  father  'd  come,  many's  the  time,  poor  gentle- 
man, while  she  was  gallivanting  on  deck  with  other  gentle- 
men, and  dressed  out  like  a  peacock,  and  once  he  said  to 
Mrs.  Ridley,  '  I  wish  you  were  my  baby's  nurse,'  he  said, 
and  that  made  Alice  wild,  and  I  don't  wonder,  for  she  was 
a  good  enough  nurse  to  his  baby,  and  no  one  could  expect 
a  young  girl  to  spend  all  her  time  fussing  over  the  child, 
as  Mrs.  Ridley  did  over  yours,  thinking  the  world  of  it, 
making  folks  tired  the  way  she'd  talk  of  it,  and  its  beauty, 
and  being  diffeient  to  all  other  babies  that  ever  were.  I 
declare  if  that  pain  in  my  side  isn't  coming  back;  it  fairly 
catches  my  breath.  .  .  .  It's  my  heart.  It's  never  been  the 
same  since  he  broke  it  twenty  years  ago.  I  was  always 
constant  by  nature.  Alice,  she  used  to  laugh  at  me  the 
way  I'd  go  on  about  his  eyes  and  his  beautiful  mustache. 
She  was  a  rare  one  for  laughing.  She  laughed  so  that 
night  we  changed  their  clothes,  I  had  to  do  it  all  myself 
pretty  nearly.  'Now  we'll  see  if  old  Mother  Ridley  knows 
her  precious  baby!'  she  kept  saying,  for  Mrs.  Ridley  had 
had  an  argument  about  it  with  her.  Alice  said  that  all 
young  babies  were  alike,  and  you  only  know  them  by  their 
clothes  mostly,  unless  their  hair  happened  to  be  a  different 
color,  which  theirs  wasn't,  both  being  a  sort  of  brown,  and 
Mrs.  Ridley  said  she'd  know  her  baby  anywhere — which 
she  didn't,  after  all,  poor  creature!  We  were  that  full  of 
high  spirits  we  meant  no  harm,  and  if  I  could  have  looked 
forward  and  seen  how  the  clothes  would  lead  folks  astray 
I'd  never  have  done  it,  God  knows,  and  you  seeing  your 

323 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

own  baby's  clothes  on  the  baby  that  wasn't  yours — I'd 
sooner  nave  cut  off  my  right  hand  than  do  it,  though  I 
will  say  'twasn't  any  suggestion  of  mine,  but  all  Alice's 
idea.  'Let's  change  their  clothes,  and  put  them  in  each 
other's  beds,' she  said.  'What  a  joke  it '11  be!'  And  half 
an  hour  after  we'd  done  it,  there  was  that  crash —  Oh, 
there's  that  pain  coming  back — 

"You  changed  their  clothes  ?" 

Susan's  voice  seemed  to  come  from  a  long  way  off. 

"Of  course  we  did — it's  hurting  me — !" 

Susan  had  turned  from  the  window.  Her  face  was  dis- 
torted with  passion;  she  held  out  her  shaking  hands  men- 
acingly; her  mouth  moved,  trying  to  speak  the  awful 
words  that  were  surging  up  into  her  throat.  For  the 
minute  she  could  not  move;  she  stood  there,  horrible  in 
her  anger,  with  the  red  light  from  the  west  full  on  her 
mad  face. 

Amelia  raised  herself  in  the  bed,  her  hand  pressed 
against  her  heart,  her  eyes  fixed  shrinkingly  on  Susan's  face. 

"I  —  I!"  she  gasped,  and  ended  with  an  incoherent 
mutter. 

Susan  moved  suddenly  towards  her,  and  with  a  cry 
Amelia  fell  back  on  her  pillow. 

Susan's  words  came  now  rapid  and  thick,  almost  unin- 
telligible. "Curse  you!"  she  cried.  "Curse  you!  All 
these  years — oh,  God,  you've  ruined  my  life!  You've 
known,  and  never  told  me —  She  raised  her  hand  to 
strike,  but  her  arm  refused;  she  held  it  stiffly  drawn  up  and 
back,  arrested  by  the  white  still  face  on  the  pillow.  She 
stood  staring  down,  waiting,  watching.  Then  her  arm  fell 
slowly  to  her  side,  the  madness  died  from  her  face.  She 
thought  Amelia  was  dead.  Even  then  she  could  not  for- 

324 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

give  her;  she  shrank  from  touching  her,  she  had  to  force 
herself  to  do  it.  She  felt  her  heart,  and  found  that  it  was 
beating,  slowly  and  very  faintly.  Amelia  had  fainted;  she 
was  not  dead.  Susan  did  all  that  she  could.  She  sent  a 
boy  for  Dr.  Lawson.  Afterwards,  when  the  doctor  had 
gone,  and  Amelia  had  fallen  into  a  heavy  sleep,  Susan, 
leaving  the  woman  procured  by  Dr.  Lawson  with  her, 
left  the  room.  Her  step  was  uneven;  once  she  put  out 
her  hand,  and  had  to  lean  against  the  wall  for  support. 
The  strain  of  the  immense  pressure  she  had  put  upon 
herself  for  this  last  hour  was  telling  upon  her  now.  She 
had  not  dared  to  let  herself  think;  she  had  forced  her 
mind  into  the  present,  to  Amelia  and  her  needs,  with  a 
wrench  that  had  exhausted  her. 

Now  she  walked  slowly  down  the  passage,  and,  opening 
the  door  of  Audrey's  room,  went  in.  The  quiet  and  peace 
of  the  little  room  came  about  her  as  she  entered  with  a 
strength  that  brought  an  ache  into  her  throat.  It  lay 
bathed  in  cold  moonlight;  Audrey's  bed  gleamed  white  in 
its  corner;  the  curtains,  that  had  once  been  Susan's  wed- 
ding-gown, looked  like  two  sentinel  angels.  .  .  . 

Susan  let  her  thoughts  go;  she  unloosed  the  grip  in 
which  she  had  held  them.  .  .  . 

It  swept  upon  her  at  last — full  understanding.  She 
trembled  at  the  revelation.  It  came  to  her,  all  that 
Amelia's  confession  meant  to  her;  utter  and  entire  realiza- 
tion swept  upon  her.  With  a  choking  sob  she  fell  upon 
her  knees  beside  Audrey's  bed.  She  cried  quietly,  wash- 
ing away  all  the  defiance,  the  suspense,  the  sorrow  of  the 
long  years.  She  said  as  she  had  so  often  said  before, 
"  She  is  mine,"  but  now  she  knew  that  it  was  true.  Audrey 
was  her  child. 

325 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Dr.  Lawson  told  her  that  Amelia  was  dying.  She  lay 
in  a  stupor,  taking  no  food;  she  did  not  seem  to  know 
any  one.  But  Susan  could  not  bear  to  meet  her  sick  eyes. 
She  fancied  there  was  an  appeal  in  them,  an  appeal  for 
forgiveness.  And  she  could  not  forgive  her.  She  tried  to 
do  it;  she  wrestled  with  herself,  prayed  that  she  might  be 
able  to  do  it,  but  anger,  fierce  and  keen,  broke  out  in  her 
still  at  the  thought  of  what  Amelia  had  done.  She  made 
excuses  for  her;  she  told  herself  that  it  had  been  merely  a 
foolish  girlish  joke  which  would  have  had  no  evil  conse- 
quences in  the  ordinary  course  of  events.  She  went  on  to 
remind  herself  of  Amelia's  weakness,  her  timidity.  She 
had  come  to  her,  thinking  of  course  that  the  child  res- 
cued as  Susan's  would  be  wearing  her  baby's  clothes, 
and  so  she  had  come  to  tell  her  that  the  child  was  not 
really  hers.  She  had  meant  honestly  so  far.  Then  when 
she  tried  to  approach  the  subject  she  had  seen  something 
in  Susan's  manner  that  had  made  her  suspect  that  Susan 
knew  the  baby  was  not  hers,  and  she  had  become  fright- 
ened, and  had  kept  silence. 

So  Susan  reasoned  it  out,  and  the  reasoning  left  her 
cold,  untouched  with  any  pity  for  Amelia.  She  further 
told  herself  that  it  had  been  partly  her  own  fault:  she  said 
that  if  she  had  had  sufficient  faith  in  her  own  instinct,  she 
would  never  have  feared,  and  so  her  manner  would  not 
have  frightened  Amelia.  But  still  she  could  not  wipe  out 
the  anger  from  her  heart.  And  Amelia's  vague  eyes  fol- 
lowed her  as  she  moved  about  the  room.  They  came  be- 
tween Susan  and  her  entire  joy  in  her  new  knowledge; 
they  embittered  the  thoughts  that  otherwise  would  have 
been  beautiful.  Once  when  she  was  alone  with  Amelia 
she  tried  to  lie  to  her;  she  tried  to  tell  her  that  she  for- 

326 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

gave  her.     But  she  could  not  do  it;  she  could  not  cheat 
a  dying  woman. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  after  her  confession,  Amelia 
roused  from  her  stupor.  The  nurse  was  down-stairs  hav- 
ing her  supper.  Susan  was  sitting  near  the  bed,  working. 
Amelia's  voice,  husky  and  hesitating,  broke  in  on  her 
tumultuous  thoughts: 

"Susan?" 

Susan  dropped  her  work  and  leaned  over  her. 

"What  is  it?" 

"You  are  angry,  Susan?" 

She  spoke  like  a  child;  it  was  evident  that  she  had  for- 
gotten what  cause  for  anger  Susan  had,  while  the  sense  of 
her  displeasure  remained. 

Susan  struggled  with  herself;  her  lips  formed  a  negative, 
then  she  parried  the  question. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Amelia  ?" 

Amelia's  hand  strayed  feebly  to  the  limp  curls  on  her 
brow. 

"The — glass,"  she  murmured. 

Susan  fetched  the  mirror.  She  knew  that  she  ought  to 
try  to  turn  Amelia's  thoughts  into  a  more  appropriate 
channel,  but,  with  her  own  thoughts  so  unchristian,  she 
felt  that  it  would  be  hypocrisy. 

Amelia  took  the  mirror,  but  could  not  lift  it.  Susan 
raised  it,  and  Amelia  looked  vaguely  at  her  reflection. 

"I  always  had  a  fine  color,"  she  murmured.  "Much 
admired — Audrey  is  pale."  A  gleam  of  interest  awoke  in 
her  face;  she  glanced  with  more  intelligence  at  Susan. 
"In  the  shell  box,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  send  it  to  Audrey." 

Susan  fetched  a  cardboard  box,  its  lid  covered  with 
little  shells,  and  laid  it  on  the  bed. 

327 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

But  Amelia's  thoughts  had  wandered  away  again. 

"Audrey  is  always  kind  to  me,"  she  murmured,  plain- 
tively, "though  she  is  a  lady  and  I'm  not.  My  curls 
are  untidy,  and  the  doctor  coming.  Susan  thinks  pow- 
der is  wicked.  She  is  very  angry  with  me." 

The  poor,  blurred  eyes  sought  Susan's  face  wistfully. 

"Here  is  the  box,"  Susan  said. 

Amelia  fumbled  with  it;  Susan  opened  it  for  her. 

"For  Audrey,"  Amelia  muttered. 

Susan  looked  into  the  box.  It  held  some  dried  brown 
rose-leaves;  some  curling-pins;  a  paper  packet  of  toilet 
powder;  a  faded  old  photograph  of  a  smug-faced  man 
with  a  very  large  mustache;  an  old  dance  programme 
scrawled  over  with  witty  remarks;  a  long,  white  silk  mit- 
ten with  a  paper  pinned  to  it  on  which  was  written: 
"The  other  stolen  by  M.  L.  D.";  a  strong  scent-sachet; 
a  few  poor  little  trinkets;  and  a  long,  pale-blue  ribbon 
sash. 

"The  sash."  Amelia's  white  lips  directed  Susan,  and 
Susan  took  it  from  the  box.  Seeing  that  Amelia  still 
looked  unsatisfied,  she  shook  it  out  till  it  lay  in  a  shining 
stream  upon  the  counterpane.  Amelia's  face  brightened. 

"For  Audrey,"  she  said,  and  lay  looking  at  it. 

Susan  was  looking  at  it,  too.  Suddenly  she  saw  a 
plump  young  girl  in  a  white  frock  and  a  blue  sash,  all 
smiles  and  blushes,  presenting  to  her  a  smug  young  man 
with  a  very  big  mustache.  There  had  never  been  any 
sympathy  between  Susan  and  Amelia.  Susan  had  never 
known  her  till,  on  going  to  America,  she  had  gone  to  see 
the  cousins  who  had,  long  ago,  left  England.  Amelia  had 
no  father  or  mother  then;  she  had  lived  with  an  uncle 
and  his  children,  who  were  all  much  older  than  she  was. 

328 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Susan  had  thought  her  vain  and  very  foolish.  She  had 
disapproved  so  strongly  of  Amelia's  coming  to  England 
after  her  faithless  lover  that  she  had  refused  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  her  on  the  boat.  She  knew  that 
Amelia  had  acted  deceitfully  in  the  matter,  that  she  had 
told  her  uncle  that  Susan  wished  her  to  go  with  her. 
She  had  been  angry  with  the  girl,  and  had  utterly  de- 
spised her.  She  had  always  despised  and  never  pitied. 
But  now,  suddenly,  as  she  stood  seeing  that  simpering 
young  girl  in  the  blue  sash,  the  pathos  of  it  came  to  her. 
She  looked  down  at  Amelia,  lying  there,  old  before  her 
time,  vacant,  mean,  with  nothing  noble  about  her  poor 
foolish  face,  and  suddenly  she  forgave  her.  She  bent 
over  her.  "Amelia,  I  am  not  angry,"  she  said,  huskily. 

Amelia  looked  up  at  her;  slowly  the  tears  trickled  down 
her  cheeks. 

"I — always — was  timid.  'Amelia,  you're — a — mouse,' 
— he  used  to  say — " 

They  were  the  last  words  she  spoke.  She  died  at  dawn 
the  next  day,  quite  quietly,  in  her  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XL 

AUDREY  was  coming  home.  That  day  she  was  com- 
1\  ing.  Susan,  in  her  new  happiness,  had  a  feeling  that 
somehow  she  must  be  able  to  make  Audrey  happy,  too. 
It  seemed  to  her  impossible  just  then  that  any  one  could  be 
sad.  Kneeling  before  the  drawer  in  her  room,  she  took 
out  the  baby  garments,  handling  them  with  a  new  gentle- 
ness. Their  little  owner  had  gone  down  to  the  bottom 
of  the  cruel  sea  in  Audrey's  little  chemise  and  nightgown. 
Poor  little  child!  Poor  mother!  Maybe  it  was  because 
she  had  lost  her  baby  that  she  lived  such  a  frivolous  life 
— that  unhappy  mother,  who  had  been  so  bereft.  There 
was  a  new  charity  in  Susan's  heart — a  large  charity  that 
pitied  much,  and  was  slow  to  condemn.  From  her  wide 
content  and  thankfulness  she  looked  out  upon  the  world 
with  new  eyes. 

She  was  glad  she  had  forgiven  Amelia  before  she  died. 
Poor  Amelia!  She  had  carried  out  all  her  wishes  with 
regard  to  the  funeral.  There  remained  no  faintest  feel- 
ing of  animosity;  she  had  forgiven  freely  and  wholly. 
As  she  had  looked  down  upon  Amelia's  dead  face  a  new 
understanding  of  her  had  seemed  to  grow  within  her. 
Death  had  been  kindly  to  the  poor,  ignoble  face;  it  had 
wiped  out  the  lines  of  meanness  and  craft,  the  lines  of 
weakness.  It  had  given  to  the  insignificant  features  a 
great  peace  that  made  them  almost  noble.  To  Susan 

330 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

had  come  the  gentle  thought  that  here  was  the  Amelia, 
who  might  have  been  had  not  a  man  been  cruel  to  her 
many  years  ago;  the  real  Amelia,  who  had  been  worsted 
in  the  fight  and  had  sunk  low. 

She  forgave  her  the  cruel  silence  of  the  years:  the  silence 
that  had  made  of  her  life  one  long  fear.  A  curious  pity 
had  taken  the  place  of  the  old  contempt.  She  wondered 
how  it  would  have  gone  with  Amelia  if  she  had  had  a 
child.  She  had  never  wondered  about  it  before.  Now 
the  thought  softened  her  heart  towards  her,  so  that  she 
was  kinder  to  Amelia's  memory  than  she  had  been  to  her 
in  life. 

Audrey  was  coming  home. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  held  her — a  few  weeks' 
old  baby — in  her  arms,  she  would  look  upon  her  with  the 
infinite  peace  born  of  the  knowledge  that  she  was  her 
own — all  her  own.  A  hundred  little  evidences  of  the 
truth  of  it  came  to  her  now.  Her  courage,  her  reserve, 
her  bearing  beneath  trouble  were  all  characteristics  of 
the  sturdy  yeoman  family  from  which  Susan  sprang.  The 
other  characteristics,  over  which  she  had  worried  with 
such  anguished  fighting,  she  pondered  now  with  tender- 
ness; they  were  Audrey's  own,  that  was  all.  There  was 
no  bitterness  in  the  thought  now.  She  realized  the  fu- 
tility of  her  former  struggle  to  mold  the  child  into  her 
own  and  her  husband's  likeness.  With  new  clearness  of 
insight  she  mourned  her  former  harshness.  She  made 
tender  resolutions,  indulged  in  tender  imaginings,  which 
was  a  rare  thing  for  her  to  do.  On  the  day  of  Audrey's 
return  she  lit  a  fire  in  her  bedroom.  It  was  with  a  joy 
queerly  out  of  proportion  to  the  mere  thing  itself  that 
she  watched  the  flames  dart  up  the  little  chimney.  Her 

33 ! 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

anxiety  lest  the  chimney  should  smoke  was  intense.  It 
was  so  many  years  since  a  fire  had  been  lit  in  that  room — 
not  since  the  winter  when  Audrey  had  been  ill  with  whoop- 
ing-cough. She  remembered  her  suffering  over  a  bunch 
of  yellow  chrysanthemums  that  the  doctor's  wife  had  sent 
to  Audrey.  Audrey  had  loved  them  so.  And  all  the 
while  she  had  thought  only  of  how  on  board  she  had 
heard  men  promising  to  load  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  with 
flowers  when  she  should  land,  to  compensate  for  their 
lack  now.  There  had  been  little  jokes  about  her  fond- 
ness for  decking  herself  with  flowers.  .  .  . 

Now  Susan  had  put  a  vase  of  winter  cherries  on  the 
table.  There  was  a  sort  of  glorying  in  the  doing  of  the 
little  things  that  once  had  held  such  pain.  She  began 
to  plan  a  spring  garden  for  Audrey.  .  .  . 

Audrey  came  late  that  afternoon. 

"The  journey  has  given  her  a  headache,"  Marcia  said, 
before  she  drove  away. 

"Mother,  I  am  so  glad  to  be  back!" 

It  was  a  tired  little  cry,  nature  breaking  out  for  a 
moment  beneath  Susan's  welcome. 

Susan  had  a  passing  wonder  that  she  could  ever  have 
doubted. 

Audrey  ate  none  of  the  good  things  Susan  had  prepared 
for  her.  She  made  excuses:  the  long  journey;  a  late 
luncheon;  her  headache. 

After  tea  she  sat  on  the  rug  before  the  fire;  she  said 
she  was  very  cold.  Susan,  working  in  her  chair,  drew  a 
little  closer.  Audrey  found  herself  leaning  against  her 
mother's  knee,  her  head  in  her  lap.  Neither  spoke  for  a 
long  while. 

332 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Poor  Amelia,"  Audrey  said,  softly.  "And  you  were 
all  alone,  Mother?" 

"Yes." 

"You  told  me  so  little.     Did  she  suffer  much  ?" 

"No.     It  was  very  sudden." 

Audrey's  eyes  were  full  of  tears;  she  was  remembering 
the  little  acts  of  kindness  Amelia  had  performed  in  the 
past. 

"It  was  her  heart?" 

"Yes." 

They  were  silent  again. 

Susan's  work  lay  in  her  lap;  her  eyes  were  bent  on  the 
head  resting  against  her  knee — the  bright  head,  with  the 
firelight  on  it.  She  could  glory  in  its  brightness  now  with- 
out bitter  thoughts  of  another  head  as  bright. 

The  severe  little  room  took  on  a  comfortable  aspect  in 
the  firelight;  the  old  oak  panelling  gave  back  yellow  and 
red  reflections.  Audrey  looked  cosey  on  the  rug. 

She  spoke  at  last,  dreamily: 

"I  feel  as  if  I'm  little  again — somehow — after  an  illness." 

Susan's  hand  went  out  and  smoothed  the  soft  hair. 

"Mother,  it  is  nice  to  be  back  again." 

Presently  she  lifted  her  head;  she  spoke  in  a  different 
voice : 

"Paris  is  such  a  beautiful  place,  Mother,  and  at  night, 
when  it  is  all  alight,  it  is  so  wonderful.  I  think  I  like  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde  the  best  of  all,  it — " 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  about  it  now,"  Susan  said,  un- 
compromisingly. 

Audrey  dropped  her  head  to  her  mother's  knee  with  a 
whimsical  little  laugh. 

"Oh,  don't  you,  Mother  ?     I'm  so  glad." 
333 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

They  were  silent  again  then. 

"Every  one  was  very  kind,"  Audrey  said,  softly — 
"always  very  kind.  But  you — why  are  you  so  nice  to 
me,  Mother  ?" 

"Am  I?"  Susan  said,  with  an  odd  sort  of  shyness. 
That  was  all  she  could  utter  of  the  words  surging  in  her 
throat. 

Audrey  gave  a  childish  little  snuggle  closer  up  to  her. 

"It's  so  nice  to  be  back,"  she  said  again. 

Susan  said: 

"And  never  trouble  to  talk  when  you  don't  want  to." 

They  both  knew  all  that  her  words  held.     Audrey  said : 

"You  won't  think  I — that  I'm  miserable,  or — or  any- 
thing, if  I  don't  ?" 

Susan  was  wise.  She  said,  gently:  "You  try  too  hard 
to  be  cheerful,  Audrey.  Don't  try.  Be  yourself  for  a 
little  while — just  you  and  me:  be  silent  when  you  want 
to;  don't  laugh  unless  you  want  to;  do  what  you  like." 

The  words  were  curt,  but  Audrey  drew  a  long  breath  of 
relief. 

"Yes,  Mother,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

AUDREY  paused  breathless,  and  cowered  beneath  the 
/V  high  hedge.  Its  bare  branches  did  not  afford  much 
shelter.  She  was  exhausted  with  her  fight  against  the 
wind.  She  was  so  tired  of  the  wind :  it  seemed  to  her  that 
it  was  always  windy  now.  She  had  not  wanted  to  come 
out,  but  it  was  so  feeble  to  stay  in-doors  just  because  the 
wind  was  high.  She  remembered  the  day  when  Martin 
had  joined  her  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  had  scolded  her 
for  being  out  so  late.  It  was  odd  how  all  the  things  that 
must  have  happened  in  all  these  places — the  roads,  the 
lanes,  the  woods,  and  fields — during  the  years  before  this 
last  one  never  came  into  her  mind,  but  only  all  the  Martin 
things.  .  .  . 

She  drew  back  shivering  before  the  approach  of  the 
massed  clouds.  She  felt  suddenly,  with  a  fear  that  made 
her  heart  beat  faster,  her  own  utter  insignificance.  It 
appalled  her.  It  filled  her  with  a  sense  of  utter  loneliness. 
She  quailed  before  the  spaces  of  the  world.  She  gazed, 
afraid,  out  over  the  large,  cold  earth;  she  saw  the  gray 
hills,  aloof,  holding  themselves  in  an  impenetrable,  eternal 
reserve.  She  heard  the  wind  crying  aloud  its  own  ever- 
lasting woes  in  a  tongue  that  she  could  not  read.  Noth- 
ing had  any  connection  with  her.  It  was  all  so  large, 
so  grand,  and  cold,  and  indifferent.  And  she  was  so 
small,  of  such  an  appalling  insignificance.  She  was 

335 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

afraid  to  leave  her  shelter;  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not 
fight  her  way  back  home  against  the  forces  of  the  crying 
wind. 

A  little  rotund  figure  ambled  into  sight  on  the  road, 
buffeted  ludicrously  by  the  wind,  walking  as  a  drunken 
man.  She  ran  at  him  with  a  sense  of  relief.  "There  is 
no  blue-bottle  now,"  she  told  herself. 

The  rector  returned  her  greeting  with  vague  amiability. 
He  could  not  remember,  for  the  moment,  who  she  was. 
But  she  was  young  and  pretty,  and  she  called  forth  his 
aged  gallantry.  He  offered  his  arm  with  an  air,  as  if  it 
were  strong  and  lusty  still. 

"The  wind  is  too  strong  for  a  young  lady  to-day,"  he 
said. 

She  took  his  arm  gratefully;  she  had  suddenly  a  com- 
panion in  her  insignificance.  This  little  old  gentleman, 
with  a  bundle  of  tracts  emerging  from  one  pocket,  and, 
guiltily,  a  scarlet  corner  of  a  paper-covered  novel  from 
another,  was  surely  insignificant,  too.  Yet  he  had  been 
the  cause,  long  ago,  of  a  beautiful  emotion.  He  had  been 
the  starting-point  of  a  wonderful  friendship.  She  felt  a 
fondness  for  him  for  that  still.  She  forgave  him  innumera- 
ble questions  as  to  the  intricate  relationships  existing  be- 
tween various  people  in  the  Old  Testament.  She  forgave 
him  her  catechism.  Because  once,  long  ago,  a  blue-bottle 
had  buzzed  round  his  dignified  head.  She  propped  him 
now  as  well  as  she  could,  and  he  asked  her  if  she  found 
his  arm  helpful.  She  assured  him  that  she  found  it  ex- 
ceedingly helpful,  and  in  amity  they  struggled  on  in  the 
teeth  of  the  wind.  When  she  laughed  he  remembered 
who  she  was.  He  began  to  speak  of  Amelia. 

"You  saw  her  at  the  last  ?"  she  said. 
336 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Yes,  yes!  Her  mind  was  wandering.  The  sick  have 
queer  hallucinations — very  queer  hallucinations.  I  am 
afraid  I  was  not  able  to  comfort  her  much.  I  hoped  to 
visit  her  again  before  she  died,"  he  rambled  on,  in  an 
undertone,  as  he  had  a  habit  of  doing  lately. 

"She  didn't  suffer  much?"  she  asked,  always  being 
anxious  on  the  point,  and  having  received  such  bald  an- 
swers from  Susan. 

"I  think  not.  The  Lord  is  very  merciful,  and  she  put 
her  trust  in  Him.  She  spoke  a  good  deal  of  religion.  It 
was  a  comfort  to  her,  even  though  her  mind  wandered. 
The  sick  have  very  queer  hallucinations  —  very  queer, 
indeed." 

"Had  Amelia  any?" 

"Ah,  yes,  yes!  The  poor  soul  was  very  much  worried 
— very  much  worried,  indeed." 

"I  wish  I  had  been  there." 

"You  would,  I  think,  have  been  of  no  help  to  the  poor 
soul;  very  likely  an  additional  trouble — yes,  an  additional 
trouble,  since  her  hallucination  was  connected  with  you, 
my  dear." 

"With  me?" 

"Yes,  yes!  She  fancied  you  were  not  your  mother's 
daughter.  Very  queer  hallucinations  the  sick  have.  You 
are  somewhat  like  Runella,  my  dear,  only  she  is  taller  and 
has  more  color.  But  there  is  a  likeness,  yes,  yes,  a  cer- 
tain likeness:  the  hair  is  like — the  hair  certainly  is  like." 

"Who  is  Runella  ?"     She  humored  him. 

"I  don't  quite  know  yet.  It  is  very  exciting — very  ex- 
citing, indeed.  I  fancy  she  will  prove  to  be  the  daughter 
of  the  Prince  and  Princess,  or  it  may  be  she  is  the 
daughter  of  the  old  Duke  of  Ormandeson.  She  is  of  high 

337 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

birth;  of  that  I  am  convinced — quite  convinced.  Many 
would  not  suspect  it,  since  she  is  obliged  to  sell  violets  for 
a  living — the  sweet  and  humble  violet.  It  is  very  exciting — 
very  exciting,  indeed.  The  wicked  Count  Tolstoff  makes 
me  feel  young  and  valorous  again,  my  dear!  I  want  to  be 
up  and  fighting  her  battles — yes,  yes,  fighting  her  battles. 
The  young  and  innocent,  thrown  upon  the  world,  have 
an  excessively  hard  battle  to  fight — an  excessively  hard 
battle.  But,"  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone,  "there  is 
One  who  always  watches  over  them,  One  who  never  slum- 
bers. We  must  always  remember  that,  my  dear." 

Battling  with  the  wind,  its  roar  in  her  ears,  she  did  not 
catch  all  that  he  said,  but  she  had  heard  of  the  nature  of 
Amelia's  dying  hallucination,  and  it  set  her  wondering. 

Later  she  spoke  to  her  mother  about  it;  but  the  subject 
was  so  evidently  distasteful  that  she  did  not  pursue  it. 
She  was  very  anxious  to  please  her  mother  at  this  time. 
Susan,  in  subtle  ways,  had  altered,  and  Audrey  recognized 
the  change,  and  was  grateful  for  the  little  privileges  ac- 
corded now  that  before  had  been  withheld. 

Susan  one  day,  speaking  abruptly,  asked  her  if  she 
would  care  for  her  to  dress  differently. 

Audrey  looked  up  pleased. 

"Oh  yes,  Mother!" 

"I  suppose  you  would  like  me  in  velvet?"  Her  tone 
was  sarcastic. 

"No.  Silk — gray  silk,  Mother — a  lavender  gray  for 
the  evening,  made  very  plainly." 

"And  my  hair  crimped  ?" 

She  laughed. 

"No;  just  as  it  is,  only  a  little  looser." 

The  silk  was  purchased  and  made.  Susan  tried  to 
338 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

leave  her  hair  a  little  looser,  but  the  pretty  wave  that 
appeared  directly  it  had  the  chance  savored  of  ex- 
treme foolishness  and  vanity  to  her.  But  Audrey  was 
pleased,  so  she  bore  with  it.  She  was  pitifully  anxious 
to  please  her — to  bring  a  brightness  to  the  face  that  had 
grown  so  much  too  serious  for  its  years. 

She  invited  the  little  Barringtons  to  tea.  She  made  all 
her  nicest  cakes  for  their  delectation. 

Bobbie  took  an  odd  fancy  to  her.  She  confided  in 
Audrey: 

"Bob  love  your  little  Ma." 

She  refused  to  call  her  anything  else;  she  gazed  at 
Susan  and  sang: 

"  There  was  a  little  lady, 

Such   a  little  Ma! 
She  kept  all  her  tiny  chillun 
In   a  ptckle-jar" 

She  found  a  jar  of  preserved  ginger  in  a  cupboard  in 
the  kitchen,  and,  upsetting  it,  covered  herself  with  its 
stickiness.  She  roared.  But  her  expression  of  astonish- 
ment when  Susan  curtly  and  emphatically  told  her  it 
served  her  right  for  meddling  was  ludicrous.  She  stopped 
roaring,  and,  sucking  her  finger,  eyed  Susan  reproach- 
fully. 

"Bad  little  Ma!  Oh,  awful  bad  little  Ma/  Poor  old 
Bob  all  sticky  and  mucklymessy." 

She  waited  expectantly. 

"You'll  have  to  be  washed,"  Susan  said,  unsympa- 
thetically. 

Bobbie  stood  on  her  chair  and  looked  pathetic. 
339 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"That  poor  ole  Bob's  all  stuck  togedder!  Bob's  nose 
is  stuck  to  her  mouth,  an'  her  legs  won't  move,  'cause 
they're  all  stuck  togedder,  an'  her  ears  are  stuck  togedder, 
an'  her  poor  little  eyes.  Oh,  that  poor  ole  Bob!" 

Susan's  mouth  twisted  in  an  unwilling  smile. 

Bobbie  gave  a  gleeful  chuckle. 

"I  was  on'y  lookin'  for  your  little  chilluns  in  the  jar. 
Oh,  don't  you  love  ole  Bob?  Ooh!  You  goin'  to  un- 
stick Bob,  little  Ma  ?" 

She  was  of  course  unstuck,  and  Susan  made  no  ob- 
jection when  loving  arms  (after  being  washed)  were  flung 
about  her  neck. 

Dickie  said  earnestly  one  day  to  Susan: 

"You  are  very  lucky  to  have  a  kitchen  all  to  yourself, 
aren't  you  ?  Our  kitchen  has  all  sorts  of  people  in  it." 

She  had  been  left,  for  some  reason,  down  in  the  kitchen 
with  Susan. 

Presently  she  said,  hesitatingly: 

"You  would  be  very  angry  if  a  little  girl  of  yours — if 
she  told  a  story,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Susan,  grimly. 

Dickie  shivered;  she  stared  at  her  fascinated. 

"What  would  you  do  to  her  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

"Punish  her  severely." 

"Oh!"  said  Dickie. 

Susan  was  cutting  bread-and-butter;  she  used  a  long 
knife,  and  the  blade  began  to  take  on  a  sinister  meaning 
to  Dickie. 

"Would  you — would  you — cut  off  her  tongue?"  she 
asked,  but  in  such  a  small  whisper  that  this  time  Susan 
did  not  hear  her.  The  blade  flashed  in  the  firelight,  and 
Dickie  shivered  again. 

340 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"A  lie,"  said  Susan,  sternly,  "is  a  wicked  and  con- 
temptible thing.  A  person  who  tells  lies  is  altogether 
bad." 

"I  think,"  said  Dickie,  in  a  queer  little  voice,  "I  will 
go  up-stairs." 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  she  knelt  down,  and,  clasping  her 
hands,  she  said: 

"Thank  God  for  not  giving  me  Audrey's  mother  for 
my  mother.  Amen." 

And  that  night  in  bed  her  arms  tightened  about  Marcia's 
neck. 

"I've  never  told  one  since  that  vase  that  day,  Mother," 
she  whispered,  excitedly. 

"I  know,  darling.  You  are  my  brave  little  truthful 
Dickie  now." 

"Oh,  Mother!  I — I'm  not  a  person  what  tells  lies, 
am  I  ?"  There  was  quavering  horror  in  the  poor  little 
voice. 

"Dear,  no!  Don't  say  such  horrid  things.  You  are 
just  my  truthful  Dickie." 

Dickie  gave  a  big  sigh  of  relief. 

"It's  lucky  Audrey  is  a  truthful  person,  else  her  mother 
would  have  cut  off  her  tongue,"  she  said,  thoughtfully. 

Marcia  scolded  her,  but  Dickie  would  only  relent  so 
far  as  to  say: 

"I  hope  she  wouldn't  do  it,"  and  her  tone  signified 
plainly  that  she  was  convinced  she  would. 

When  Marcia  left  her  she  knelt  up  in  bed,  and  added 
a  postscript  to  her  prayers: 

"Oh,  thank  God  for  not  giving  me  Audrey's  mother 
for  my  mother.  Thank  God  again!  Amen." 


M 


CHAPTER  XLII 

ARTIN,"  Marcia  said,  "is  in  British  Columbia." 
She  stared  out  of  the  window  at  the  falling 
snow.  There  was  a  breathless  silence.  Then:  "Is  he?" 
Audrey  said,  and  that  was  all. 

But  when  Marcia  looked  at  her  presently  she  saw  that 
her  face  was  as  white  as  the  snow  she  had  been  watching. 
She  said,  slowly: 

"I  heard  it  from  an  aunt  of  his.  "I  thought  you 
ought  to  know." 

Again  that  charged  silence. 

"Has— has  he—" 

Her  inability  to  go  on  made  her  seem  suddenly  very 
young  to  Marcia,  and  brought  her  closer  than  the  de- 
termination of  all  these  weeks  had  done. 

"He  hasn't  quarrelled  with  his  father,"  she  said,  gently. 
"I  fancy  he  has  gone  to  look  into  matters,  so  that  he  will 
be  able  to  lay  them  clearly  before  you:  to  tell  you  exactly 
what  his  prospects  would  be,  and  what  life  you  would 
lead  if  you  were  to  marry  him." 

Euphemia  ate  the  piece  of  cake  that  dropped  from 
Audrey's  trembling  fingers. 

"Will  you  tell  him  not — not  to  trouble  ?"  she  said,  stiffly; 
and  then  she  began  to  laugh.  It  struck  her  that  it  was 
such  a  funny  thing  to  say.  She  could  not  stop  laughing; 
she  knew  that  Marcia  thought  her  hysterical,  but  she  could 

342 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

not  stop.  She  tried  to  tell  her  why  she  was  laughing,  but 
the  words  would  not  come,  somehow.  And  Marcia  was 
making  her  lie  back  among  the  cushions — oh,  how  funny. 
And  her  throat  was  aching — aching — how  she  wanted  to 
cry,  but  she  wouldn't — oh,  she  mustn't!  She  did  not  want 
to  laugh  any  more. 

She  stood  up  in  a  few  minutes. 

"I  will  go  home  now,"  she  said. 

"Dear,  you  are  going  to  stay  to  dinner  and  sleep  here." 

Audrey  put  up  her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

"I  had  forgotten.     Do  you  mind  if  I  go  home  ?" 

"No,  dear,  not  if  you  would  rather." 

"I  would,  please." 

She  went  up-stairs  to  put  on  her  hat  and  coat.  When 
she  came  down  she  found  the  brougham  waiting  for  her. 

"I  meant  to  walk.     I  wish  you  wouldn't  trouble." 

Marcia  watched  her  go  uneasily. 

That  drive  seemed  endless  to  Audrey.  She  was  very 
cold,  in  spite  of  the  rugs.  She  wanted  to  get  home  and  up 
to  the  little  room  which  was  all  her  own,  and  where  she 
would  be  quite  alone.  She  reached  the  gray  cottage  and 
went  in.  She  made  her  way  to  the  stairs.  On  her  left  a 
door  was  ajar;  she  saw  Susan  sitting  before  the  fire  sewing. 

She  gave  a  little  heart-broken  cry:  "Mother!" 

She  cried  terribly.   .   .   . 

Susan  worried  her  with  no  questions.  After  a  while 
she  took  her  up  to  her  room,  and  helped  her  to  undress. 
Audrey  was  quiet  now;  she  looked  so  ill  and  worn  out  that 
Susan  was  filled  with  anxiety,  but  still  she  said  nothing. 

When  she  was  in  bed  Susan  sat  down  before  the 
fire,  and  went  on  with  her  work.  Presently  a  whisper 
reached  her. 

343 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"Mother." 

She  went  to  the  side  of  the  bed.  Audrey's  wan  little 
face  looked  up  at  her;  her  eyes  were  filled  with  despair. 

"I  can't  hurt  him  again!  I  can't!  What  am  I  to  do, 
Mother  ?" 

"What  has  happened,  Audrey  ?" 

"He  is  in  British  Columbia,"  her  lips  trembled,  "find- 
ing out  what  it  would  be  like  if — if  we  were  married."  Her 
voice  rose  a  little.  "He  is  still  hoping!  I  shall  have  to 
hurt  him  again — all  over  again!  Mother,  I  can't  do  it! 
I  can't!  To  hurt  him  so — me!  I  can't!  I  can't!" 

Susan  spoke  gently: 

"Then  you  will  marry  him,  dear  ?" 

Audrey  lay  suddenly  very  still. 

"No,"  she  said.  "That  would  hurt  him  more — after- 
wards." 

"Perhaps  you  are  wrong,"  said  Susan,  who  did  not 
think  it. 

"No,  I  am  right." 

She  turned  her  face  away,  and  cried  into  the  pillow — 
cried  to  think  of  the  pitifulness  of  his  going  to  British 
Columbia  and  still  hoping. 

The  next  morning  she  rose  as  usual;  she  acted  and  spoke 
as  usual,  but  she  looked  very  ill. 

Susan  never  could  think  afterwards  when  the  thought 
came  to  her.  Perhaps  dimly,  in  the  long  night  filled  with 
aching  grief  for  Audrey,  it  had  come  to  her.  She  did  not 
know.  Only  she  found  herself  studying  the  child's  face 
with  an  anxiety  that  was  almost  frantic,  with  a  trembling 
hope  that  she  had  magnified  Audrey's  sorrow. 

But  bright  words  and  careful  smiles  could  not  deceive 
her,  although  in  her  desperate  endeavor  to  keep  that  awful 

344 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

thought  at  bay  she  made  a  poor  pretence  that  they  did. 
But  her  imagination  awoke;  she  saw  Audrey  happy. 
And  the  thought  came  close,  began  to  lose  its  vagueness; 
it  said:  "You  have  the  power  to  make  her  happy." 

She  pushed  it  away  again;  she  could  not  face  it.  She 
made  pitiful  little  efforts  to  please  Audrey.  Would  she 
like  to  go  away  with  her  ?  Abroad?  Anywhere?  Would 
she  like  her  to  ask  Mrs.  Barrington  to  let  one  or  two  of  the 
children  come  and  stay  a  week  ? 

After  dinner  she  went  up  to  her  room.  She  locked  the 
door,  and  took  from  the  drawer  the  baby  garments. 
She  held  them  in  her  hands,  staring  down  at  them.  The 
thought  took  shape  now;  its  vagueness  had  gone.  But, 
oddly,  it  took  shape  as  affecting  other  lives — not  hers  and 
Audrey's;  it  was  as  if  she  were  listening  to  some  one  telling 
her  this  plan,  this  idea.  Step  by  step  it  came  to  her,  and 
left  her  cold,  an  outsider.  She  worked  it  out  quite  clearly. 
She  saw  how  each  piece  of  the  story  would  fit  in.  Amelia 
would  have  her  use;  her  confession  to  the  rector,  as  she 
lay  dying,  would  be  of  tremendous  value.  The  baby 
clothes,  with  the  initials  worked  on  them,  might  not  have 
been  sufficient  alone.  But  together  with  Amelia's  state- 
ment they  would  be  surely  strong  enough  to  convince  any 
one  of  the  truth  of  her  story. 

So  she  reasoned  it  out. 

Then  suddenly,  with  pitiless  poignancy,  the  role  of  out- 
sider fell  from  her.  She  stood  face  to  face  with  the 
thought  born  of  her  love  for  Audrey.  The  words  of  that 
woman  of  old,  whom  once  she  had  dubbed  weak  and 
foolish,  rang  in  her  ears :  "  O  my  lord,  give  her  the  living 
child,  and  in  no  wise  slay  it."  It  was  curious  that  the 
ethical  side  of  the  thought  never  troubled  her:  she  dis- 

345 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

missed  it  with  a  certain  grand  curtness — the  thing  she 
would  do  was  wicked,  and  she  would  do  it.  That  was  all. 
But  she  did  not  recognize,  in  their  ugliness  and  nakedness, 
the  falsehood  and  deceit  that  would  be  necessary.  Just  as 
years  ago,  to  save  the  lives  of  the  young  things  on  her 
father's  farm,  she  had  swerved  aside  from  the  path  of 
rigid  truth,  and  had  failed  to  realize  it,  so  now,  because  the 
thing  which  faced  her  was  to  be  done  for  Audrey's  sake,  a 
curious  mental  blindness  obscured  her  usually  clear  vision. 
She  stood  there,  holding  the  clothes  in  her  hands,  wrest- 
ling with  herself.  But  all  the  while  she  knew  she  would 
do  it.  Unimaginative  as  she  was,  the  agony  of  the  sacri- 
fice was  so  terrible  that  she  found  herself  looking  out  onto 
the  snowy  world  with  a  vague  wonder  that  all  was  as  it  had 
been  yesterday — this  morning.  The  world  should  have 
been  black,  hideous.  .  .  . 

Presently  her  mind,  unable  yet  wholly  to  face  the  idea 
as  inevitable,  seized  exhaustedly  on  a  possible  escape. 
Had  she  any  right  to  give  her  child  to  a  selfish,  frivolous 
woman,  such  as  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  was?  To  compel 
Audrey  to  call  her  mother?  With  a  stern  inexorability 
she  repeated  inwardly  the  words — "To  call  her  mother." 
Might  not  her  influence  do  Audrey  harm  ?  So  she  worked 
awhile  round  the  new  idea,  fencing  off  the  sacrifice  with 
what  she  knew  all  the  while  were  sophistries.  While  the 
one  half  of  her  brain  was  busy  with  the  invention  of  these 
excuses,  the  other  said  plainly  that  Audrey  would  have 
little  to  do  with  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent,  as  she  would  marry 
Martin;  that  she  was  old  enough  now  not  to  be  harmed 
by  slight  contact  with  selfishness  and  frivolity;  that  hers 
was  no  weak  nature  to  be  so  easily  affected;  that  her 
eventual  happiness  was  the  only  thing  to  be  considered. 

346 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

Beneath  the  window  she  heard  Audrey's  voice  speak  to 
the  servant  who  had  lately  come  to  the  cottage.  A  sudden 
revolt  swept  upon  her.  She  would  not  do  this  thing. 
Madly  she  tore  at  the  flannel  petticoat;  she  would  tear  it — 
destroy  it — put  the  doing  of  this  thing  out  of  her  power 
forever!  She  wrung  it  in  her  hands.  Then  she  flung  it, 
unharmed,  aside,  and  fell  upon  her  knees  by  the  bedside. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

HILARY  JOCELYN  had  felt  uncomfortable  on  re- 
ceiving the  name  of  his  visitor.  Now,  facing  her 
he  felt  wretched  and,  consequently,  very  angry.  For 
there  was  tragedy  in  this  little  woman's  strong  face,  and 
he  thought  she  had  come  to  plead  for  his  relenting. 

He  said,  curtly: 

"I  am  very  sorry  you  should  have  come.  It  can  do 
no  good." 

"I  have  come  because  I  have  something  I  must  tell  you," 
Susan  replied,  in  an  expressionless  voice. 

He  looked  surprised. 

"  I  know  no  words  of  mine  nor  of  any  one  could  make 
you  relent.  You  have  sworn." 

She  paused. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"You  swore  that  your  son  should  not  marry  John 
Fielding's  daughter  ?" 

"I  did." 

She  said,  in  a  tired  voice,  with  a  mechanical  note  in  it, 
as  if  she  had  said  the  words  many  times: 

"Audrey  is  not  John  Fielding's  daughter." 

"Good  God!" 

He  stood  staring  down  at  her,  quite  at  a  loss. 

"She  is  not  his  daughter,  or  mine,"  she  repeated,  a 
curious  introspective  expression  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  were 

348 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

listening  to  the  sound  of  the  words.  "Our  daughter  was 
drowned  when  she  was  a  baby." 

She  paused  and  moistened  her  lips. 

He  said,  conveying  his  doubt  as  gently  as  he  could: 

"Need  you  tell  me  the  story  ?  It  only  gives  you  need- 
less pain." 

"It  isn't  needless,"  she  answered.  "If  it  were  need- 
less, should  I  be  doing  it  ?  I've  got  to  do  it."  She  paused 
again.  For  a  moment  she  turned  from  the  idea,  sick 
loathing  upon  her. 

"I  think  I  would  sooner  see  her  dead  than  do  it!"  she 
cried,  in  a  low  voice  that  shook  with  the  tragedy  of  her 
revolt.  There  was  no  acting  about  it,  but  it  did  much 
to  convince  him  that  she  was  speaking  the  truth;  she 
could  have  found  no  surer  way  to  make  him  believe  her 
story.  As  she  went  on  speaking  a  chivalrous  pity  for  her 
awoke  in  him.  Astounding  as  her  tale  was,  he  found 
himself  believing  every  word. 

She  told  her  story  in  a  dull,  monotonous  voice,  devoid 
of  all  comments  and  side  issues. 

"She  was  drowned  twenty  years  ago.  We  were  coming 
home  from  New  York — the  Victoria — " 

He  nodded. 

"I  remember  her  going  down." 

"My  husband  was  drowned,  too.  In  trying  to  get  to 
my  baby  I  was  pushed  down;  I  hit  my  head,  and  was 
knocked  senseless.  They  put  me  in  a  boat.  We  reached 
Ballyincragh,  in  Ireland.  I  was  very  ill  for  three  months — 
unconscious  all  the  while.  Then  they  brought  my  baby 
to  me.  At  first  I  only  thought  she  had  altered  through 
growing  much  fatter  and  bigger.  Some  weeks  later  the 
Irish  girl  who  had  been  looking  after  her  brought  me  the 

349 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

clothes  she  had  been  wearing  when  rescued.  They 
weren't  her  clothes.  They  had  thought,  because  she  was 
in  the  same  boat  as  myself  and  my  nurse,  that  she  was 
my  child.  They  never  questioned  it.  The  clothes  were 
marked  'B.  M.  H.-D.'"  Her  hand  closed  convulsively 
upon  the  parcel  in  her  lap.  The  tremendous  strain  she  was 
putting  upon  herself  was  only  apparent  in  that  grasp  and 
in  the  sudden  loss  of  voice. 

"Then  who — "  he  began,  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"She  is  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent's  child." 

"Good  Heavens!" 

He  rubbed  up  his  gray  hair  in  perplexity. 

"Mrs.  Hartley-Dent!  But — why — Mrs.  Hartley-Dent! 
How  did  it  happen,  then  ?  I  remember  her  husband  and 
baby  went  down  with  the  Victoria.  Yes,  yes!  How  did 
she  come  to  make  such  a  mistake  ?  Why  did  she  take  it 
for  granted  it  was  her  child  who  was  drowned  ?  A  woman 
wouldn't  do  a  thing  like  that." 

Bitter  jealousy  was  in  face  and  voice  as  she  answered: 

"She  never  cared  for  her  baby.  She  took  no  notice  of 
her  on  board.  Her  nurse  was  drowned,  too,  and  her  hus- 
band. The  bodies  were  never  recovered.  I  suppose  she 
believed  what  was  said  in  the  papers.  She  was  ill,  too, 
for  some  weeks,  from  the  shock." 

"It  sounds  incredible,"  he  said,  walking  up  and  down 
the  room.  She  watched  him,  and  the  jealousy,  the  re- 
volt were  swept  from  her  face;  a  look  of  fear  took  their 
place.  She  forgot  herself  absolutely;  she  only  thought 
that  if  he  would  not  believe  her  story  she  would  have  to 
acquiesce  in  the  spoiling  of  Audrey's  young  life.  She 
dragged  forth  her  last  piece  of  proof.  "My  cousin 
Amelia  was  on  board,  too.  She  knew.  When  she  was 

350 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

dying  she  told  Mr.  Southey,  the  rector,  that  Audrey  was 
not  my  child.  I  made  him  believe  that  she  was  delirious. 
She  wasn't." 

He  glanced  at  her  quickly;  there  was  a  curious  eager- 
ness in  his  expression. 

"She  told  him  that  ?"  he  said,  ruminatingly. 

There  was  relief  in  his  voice.  He  wanted  to  believe 
her  story;  with  all  his  heart  and  soul  he  wanted  to  believe 
it.  And  here  surely  was  proof — ordinary,  worldly,  solid 
proof;  not  merely  the  proof  of  a  woman's  expression — of 
her  agony.  He  was  a  simple  old  gentleman  who  had  an 
erroneous  idea  that  he  was  shrewd  and  astute.  His  nat- 
ural instinct  had  been  to  believe  her  story;  but  the  culti- 
vated idea  of  his  astuteness  had  led  him  at  last  to  doubt, 
or  to  tell  himself  that  he  doubted.  His  very  eagerness 
to  credit  her  truth  made  him  uneasy.  But  here  was 
proof.  He  could  consult  that  rector. 

She  saw  his  change  of  opinion;  and  realizing  that  vic- 
tory was  hers,  she  seemed  suddenly  to  fall  together,  as  it 
were.  She  sat,  huddled  up,  her  hands  limp. 

"Here  are  the  clothes,"  she  said. 

He  took  the  parcel  in  silence,  cut  through  the  string, 
and  stood  looking  down  upon  the  little  chemise,  and  the 
folded  petticoat,  and  the  nightgown. 

Then  he  looked  at  her. 

"Why  didn't  you  destroy  them  all  these  years?" 

It  was  a  man's  question,  and  she  could  not  explain. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  dully. 

"You  would  never  have  told  the  truth  but  for — 
er— " 

"No,"  she  said,  in  his  pause. 

Then  she  said": 

351 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"I  have  done  it  because  she  loves  your  son.  You  will 
not  come  between  them  any  more  ?" 

Absurdly,  illogically,  seeing  that  the  woman  before  him 
had  been  guilty  of  fraud,  of  theft,  he  felt  that  he  was  a 
brute. 

"No,"  he  said,  curtly. 

She  gave  a  great  sigh,  and  rose. 

"Er — is  she  at  all  like  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent?"  he  asked. 

He  was  thinking  of  his  son;  he  disliked  Mrs.  Hartley- 
Dent. 

"No,"  she  said.     She  added,  fiercely:   "Not  at  all!" 

He  nodded. 

"Will  you  sit  down  again?  There  are  a  few  questions 
I  want  to  ask  you." 

She  sat  down  with  a  weary  patience. 

He  stood  lost  in  thought.  She  knew  that  he  was  think- 
ing of  his  son.  A  bitter  hatred  of  him  grew  up  in  her 
heart.  It  was  his  doing — all  the  doing  of  one  obstinate 
old  man!  She  saw  the  happiness  in  his  face,  and  her 
jealousy  flamed.  She  put  up  her  hand  to  her  mouth,  as 
if  she  needed  to  shut  back  the  mad  words  that  rose  to 
her  lips:  "It  is  a  lie!  She  is  mine!"  She  almost  cried  it 
out.  Then  the  mood  passed,  and  her  patience  returned. 

But  it  had  left  her  a  little  more  worn  out,  a  little  tireder, 
a  little  less  capable  of  clear  thought. 

She  found  herself  thinking  of  Hilary  Jocelyn  as  the  wise 
king  of  old;  only  this  time,  when  the  woman  had  cried  out, 
"Give  her  the  living  child,"  he  had  done  it.  His  wisdom 
had  failed.  He  had  not  understood  this  time.  .  .  .  And 
she  was  the  woman.  .  .  .  She  woke  from  the  tired  stupor 
that  had  stolen  upon  her,  woke  to  fresh  pain.  She  looked 
upon  him  with  a  vague  contempt.  They  had  been  wiser 

352 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

of  old.  She  wondered  that  he  had  been  so  ready  to  be- 
lieve her. 

She  did  not  realize  that  the  fact  of  the  story  she  had 
told  him  having  been,  for  twenty  years,  the  truth  to  her — 
the  dreaded  truth,  pushed  from  her,  fought  with,  doubted, 
but  always  there — had  given  her  recital  of  it  a  strong 
reality. 

As  she  left  him  she  was  thinking  vaguely  that  Solomon 
was  not  so  wise  as  he  had  been  painted.  She  had  cried 
to  him,  "Give  her  the  living  child." 

And  he  had  done  it. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

"AUDREY,  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 
l\  The  words  dragged  themselves  out. 

Susan  was  facing  the  worse  part  of  her  tremendous  self- 
sacrifice  now.  She  faced,  knowingly,  the  possibility  of 
Audrey's  despisal,  her  repudiation.  And  she  faced  the 
certainty  of  her  joy. 

She  had  pondered,  these  last  days,  the  strong  purity  of 
her  child's  nature,  the  absolute  truth  of  it,  the  conscien- 
tiousness. All  these  things  her  up-bringing  had  fostered, 
had  strengthened.  And  now  she  was  to  sit  in  judgment 
on  her  mother.  She  was  to  be  told  of  deceit  practised 
through  the  long  years,  of  falsehood,  of  theft.  Susan  put 
it  plainly  to  herself.  She  ended  always  with  the  thought 
of  the  child's  ultimate  great  happiness.  A  certain  amount 
of  suffering  upon  learning  the  nature  of  the  woman  she 
had  thought  her  mother;  then  supreme  joy.  Sometimes 
the  memory  of  her  wild  determination  never  to  give  her 
up,  when  she  had  thought  she  was  not  her  child,  crossed 
her  mind,  and  she  wondered.  Somehow  it  was  different 
now.  That  woman  in  the  Bible  was  always  in  her  mind 
— "O  my  lord,  give  her  the  living  child,  and  in  no  wise 
slay  it." 

She  was  giving  her  child  to  the  other  woman — the  foolish, 
worthless  woman  who  would  not  know  how  to  prize  the 
gift.  Grim  imaginings  of  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  assailed  her. 

354 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

She  saw  her  making  a  joke  of  it,  saying,  with  her  frivolous 
laugh:  "Let  it  be  neither  mine  nor  thine,  but  divide  it." 

"Audrey,  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"What  is  it,  Mother?" 

It  was  late  in  the  evening,  after  supper.  Susan  had  re- 
turned from  her  long  journey  only  an  hour  before. 

"Need  you  tell  me  to-night,  Mother?  You  look  so 
tired." 

"Yes,  I  must  tell  you  to-night.  Sit  there — on  the  rug — 
child.  Don't  interrupt.  Let  me  tell  you  in  my  own  way." 

"Yes,  Mother." 

Audrey  was  afraid.  She  sat  very  still,  looking  into  the 
fire.  She  knew  not  to  look  into  her  mother's  face. 

Susan  began  to  tell  her.  Her  tongue  felt  oddly  heavy 
and  tired;  it  required  a  great  effort  to  get  the  words  said. 
Audrey  took  her  hand  between  hers,  and  held  it.  In 
Susan's  mind,  behind  what  she  was  saying,  a  thought  came: 
"When  would  she  drop  that  hand  in  horror  ?" 

She  said  it  all.  Audrey's  face  was  snow-white.  She 
clung  to  her  mother's  hand.  When  Susan  stopped,  she 
turned  and  flung  her  arms  about  her. 

"Mother — Mother — oh,  it  isn't  true!  Mother!  You 
are  my  mother — 

Susan  began  to  tremble.  It  was  not  what  she  had  ex- 
pected. She  was  not  prepared.  This  was  not  repudia- 
tion, nor  was  it  joy.  The  arms  clung  to  her.  "  You  are 
my  mother — " 

Then  she  said: 

"The  long  falsehood — the  deceit!"  She  said  it  trem- 
blingly. 

"I  was  yours!  You  were  mine,  Mother.  It  seemed  so. 
Ah,  why  have  you  told  me  now  ?  I  don't  want  to  know. 

355 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Mrs.  Hartley-Dent  is  not  my  mother.     I  only  want  you — 
not  her." 

It  was  Susan's  moment. 

Whatever  might  come  afterwards,  she  would  have  had 
that  moment.  She  was  repaid.  A  peacefulness  dawned 
in  her  haggard  face.  She  prolonged  the  moment  jealously; 
she  lived  every  bit  of  it,  clung  to  it;  not  just  yet  could  she 
give  it  up.  So  she  kept  silence.  She  watched  hungrily 
Audrey's  face,  read  the  love  in  it,  saw  its  truth  and  loyalty. 

"Mother,  can't  we  pretend  ?  Can't  we  forget  that  you 
have  told  me  ?  It  is  so  strange — it  doesn't  seem  real  to 
me.  And  she  doesn't  want  me.  And  you  do.  You  do 
want  me,  Mother,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Audrey." 

"Mother,  there  is  some  mistake.  I  feel  it,  I  know  it! 
Those  clothes  were  washed  up — they  weren't  on  me.  That 
girl  made  a  mistake.  You  would  have  known,  Mother,  if 
I  hadn't  been  your  baby — "  • 

One  by  one  Susan  recognized  the  old  weary  arguments 
of  her  use;  but  now,  in  the  young,  eager  voice,  they  sound- 
ed fresh,  new,  convincing. 

"Yes;  it's  all  a  mistake,  Mother." 

Suddenly  Susan  awoke  to  a  new  danger.  She  must  con- 
vince her  before  she  reminded  her  of  Martin. 

"Amelia  knew,"  she  said. 

,   "Yes,  you  told  me.     Mr.  Southey  told  me,  too.     How 
did  she,  Mother  ?     How  could  she  ?" 

Susan's  lips  moved  stiffly. 

"  She  had  seen  more  of  my  baby  than  I  had.  I  had  been 
so  ill  ever  since  she  was  born.  And  on  board  she  had  been 
friends  with  Mrs.  Hartley-Dent's  nurse.  She  knew  her 
baby — you — too.  Audrey,  you  must  believe  it." 

356 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Then  I  don't  belong  to  you  at  all?  Oh,  Mother! 
Mother!  why  did  you  tell  me  ?" 

Susan  did  not  reply  at  once.  Audrey's  face  was  up- 
turned, her  wet  eyes  looking  at  her  in  puzzled  misery. 

Susan  knew  that  the  end  of  her  moment  had  come. 

"Can't  you  guess  why  I  have  told  you?"  she  said, 
gently.  "Audrey,  I  have  been  to  Mr.  Jocelyn  to-day. 
He  knows." 

Audrey  began  to  tremble.  She  dropped  her  head  to 
Susan's  knee.  She  knew  now  why  she  had  done  it. 

There  was  a  long  silence;  from  the  hall  there  came  to 
them  the  tick-tack  of  the  wheezy  old  clock.  Susan  found 
herself  listening  for  the  little  asthmatical  cough  it  always 
gave  every  five  minutes.  When  it  came  she  spoke. 

"You  won't  have  to  hurt  him  any  more,"  she  said. 

"Mother!" 

In  a  burst  Audrey's  tears  came. 

Susan  stroked  her  hair  gently. 

Audrey  looked  up  through  her  tears.  There  was  passion- 
ate love  in  her  face. 

"Mother,  you  did  it  for  us!  Oh,  if  I  could  tell  you  what 
I  think  of  you!" 

"But  the  falsehood — "  Susan  said,  wonderingly. 

"Ah,  what  does  it  matter,  Mother?  They  had  given 
me  to  you — saved  me  from  the  sea  for  you!  I  was  yours! 
How  could  you  give  up  your  little  baby  ?  But  you  have — 
you  have  done  it  now!  Mother,  I  am  more  yours  than 
I've  ever  been  before!  You  are  my  mother!" 

Susan  listened.  Audrey's  joy  was  there  now,  but  the 
hurt  of  it  had  been  taken  away.  For  the  minute  her  lone- 
liness was  lulled;  she  forgot  that  she  had  given  her  child 
to  the  other  woman. 

357 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"Mother,"  Audrey  said,  shyly,  "if  I  write  a  letter,  can 
it  be  posted  to-night  ?" 

"  But  there  is  no  post  out  till  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"But  there — there  might  be.  It — might  make  a  differ- 
ence." 

"Very  well,"  Susan  said. 


M' 


CHAPTER  XLV 

I.  HARTLEY -DENT  was  considerably  upset. 
Her  maid  announced  to  her  friends  that  she  was 
suffering  from  an  attack  of  influenza,  and  could  see  no 
one.  Her  friends  did  not  believe  it,  and  set  about  trying 
to  discover  the  reason  of  her  sudden  seclusion.  But  none 
of  them  arrived  near  the  truth,  which  had  almost  a  sensa- 
tional flavor  about  it,  and  was  not  in  the  least  like  the  sug- 
gestions and  innuendoes  in  which  they  indulged  when 
other  topics  flagged.  Mrs.  Pat  was  so  upset  that  she  gave 
no  thought  at  all  to  her  friends:  the  excuse  of  influenza 
was  evolved  entirely  by  Lucille,  who  had  an  innate  sense 
of  propriety  that  had  proved,  more  than  once,  useful  to 
her  mistress,  who  was  inclined  to  be  swayed  entirely  by 
the  mood  of  the  moment,  regardless  of  all  future  moments. 
She  had  refused  to  believe  the  story  Hilary  Jocelyn  had 
told  her.  She  had  been  bitterly  witty  at  his  expense;  had 
wondered  amusedly  at  his  credulity.  She  had  assured 
him  that  she  knew  many  mothers  who  would  do  as  much 
for  their  daughters  as  Susan  had  done  for  hers  to  secure 
such  an  extremely  desirable  husband  as  Martin. 

"Women  are  all  supposed  to  be  good  at  fibbing,"  she 
smiled.  "But  mother-fibbing — it  beats  them  all!" 

She  had  eased  some  considerable  doubts  on  his  part 
by  declaring  that  although  Audrey  was  a  dear  little  thing, 
they  had  less  than  nothing  in  common. 

359 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Hilary  Jocelyn,  looking  at  her,  was  very  glad  to  hear 
it.  She  further  reassured  him  by  showing  him  a  photo- 
graph in  which  she  and  Audrey  both  appeared.  It  had 
been  taken  at  the  Hall  by  Jimmy.  It  was  not  a  particu- 
larly successful  photograph:  some  of  the  group  had  two 
heads;  but  both  Audrey  and  Mrs.  Pat,  side  by  side,  had 
come  out  clearly.  Audrey  was  exceedingly  serious — the 
result  of  pity  for  Jimmy's  anguished  remonstrance  against 
the  sitters'  frivolity;  she  was  looking  straight  into  the 
camera.  Hilary  Jocelyn  studied  the  small  grave  face 
very  earnestly;  he  noted  the  breadth  of  the  brow,  the  shy 
honesty  of  the  eyes  which  was  so  characteristic  of  her, 
and  he  drew  a  deep  breath  of  satisfaction. 

"Now,  isn't  it  ridiculous!  Is  there  the  faintest  resem- 
blance between  us  ?"  Mrs.  Pat  demanded,  petulantly. 

He  glanced  from  the  photograph  to  her. 

"No,"  he  said,  heartily,  "not  the  faintest!"  And  he 
very  nearly  added:  "Thank  God!" 

Perhaps  she  felt  the  words  hovering  in  the  air;  her  color 
deepened  a  little. 

"Of  course,"  she  drawled,  "it's  convenient  for  you  to 
believe  this  trumped-up  story." 

"Most,"  he  agreed. 

"You  can  be  reconciled  to  your  son  and  retain  your 
pride  at  the  same  time." 

"Exactly,"  he  said,  courteously. 

"But,  you  see,"  she  proceeded,  spitefully,  "I  gain  noth- 
ing and  lose  a  good  deal.  I  have  not  the  slightest  wish 
to  be  suddenly  saddled  with  a  grown-up  daughter.  The 
idea" — she  glanced  into  a  mirror — "is  absurd!" 

He  said  gallantly  (he  felt  far  more  charitably  disposed 
towards  her  since  he  had  seen  the  photograph): 

360 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

"You  do  render  the  situation  a  little  ridiculous." 

"Well,  I  shall  do  my  best  to  prove  the  story  a  lie,"  she 
said. 

That  was  before  she  had  seen  her  solicitor  on  the  mat- 
ter. He,  after  due  inquiries,  strongly  advised  her  to 
accept  the  situation.  He  explained  that  further  inquiries 
would  be  probably,  almost  certainly,  productive  of  the 
same  result.  Then  he  hinted  delicately  at  the  expense  of 
such  inquiries,  and  his  expression  was  not  so  delicate  as 
his  words.  It  said  quite  plainly  that  until  Mrs.  Hartley- 
Dent  had  settled  the  little  matter  already  existing  between 
them,  he  must  decline  to  undertake  further  investiga- 
tions. It  also  suggested  that  in  any  case  he  was  not 
anxious  to  start  a  long  and  arduous  inquiry  for  this  par- 
ticularly troublesome  and  unremunerative  client,  who 
was  tolerated  by  him  only  on  sentimental  grounds,  because 
her  father  had  been  his  dearest  friend. 

Mrs.  Pat  was  very  angry.  But  for  once  she  did  not 
give  rein  to  her  anger.  She  dismissed  her  solicitor,  and 
thought.  She  decided  finally  that  the  less  publicity  given 
to  the  matter  the  better  for  her.  There  was  a  certain 
Colonel  Jackson  to  be  considered — in  fact,  she  had  been 
considering  him  all  the  while.  She  feared  the  effect  her 
sudden  possession  of  a  grown-up  daughter  might  have 
upon  his  tactics.  At  the  present  moment,  after  much  and 
long  reconnoitring,  he  was  attacking;  Audrey  might  rout 
him;  he  might  retire.  Colonel  Jackson  had  lately  come 
into  a  fortune;  he  also  suffered  from  hereditary  gout  and 
an  execrable  temper. 

But  Mrs.  Pat  was  a  brave  woman,  and  she  was  filled  with 
a  weary  loathing  of  the  task  of  striving  to  make  both  ends 
meet — a  task  for  which  she  was  constitutionally  unfitted. 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

In  the  end  she  wrote  to  Audrey,  suggesting  that  she 
should  come  and  see  her. 

In  the  midst  of  her  selfishness  she  had,  as  she  addressed 
the  envelope,  a  flash  of  insight. 

"I  should  make  a  perfectly  horrid  mother.  Nature 
made  a  mistake  when  she  sent  me  a  baby!" 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

AUDREY,  still  as  Audrey  Fielding,  came  to  Mrs. 
/V  Pat's  flat  in  town.  She  felt  horribly  nervous  as  she 
ascended  the  stairs.  She  found  Mrs.  Pat,  worried  and 
sallow,  lying  on  a  lounge,  smoking.  She  came  in,  shut 
the  door  behind  her,  and  stood  hesitating.  They  eyed 
each  other  with  a  curious  glance;  there  was  hostility  in 
it,  and  a  certain  awkwardness.  The  situation  was  un- 
usual, and  it  bristled  with  latent  dramatic  possibilities 
which  both,  from  different  reasons,  dreaded. 

Mrs.  Pat  said,  with  a  short  laugh: 

"You  needn't  kiss  me." 

Audrey  reddened.  It  was  a  point  on  which  she  had 
debated  long  and  nervously. 

"Sit  down." 

She  sat  down.     She  could  think  of  nothing  to  say. 

"I  warn  you  at  once  that  I'm  in  a  vile  temper.  You 
can  tell  that  by  my  complexion.  Ask  Lucille.  What  a 
skin  you  have,  child!  You  never  got  that  from  me,  at 
any  rate." 

She  eyed  her  enviously;  she  was  thinking  that  her 
fresh  youth  would  age  her  as  surely  as  possession  of  a 
grown-up  daughter  must,  in  any  case,  age  her. 

"My  hair  is  from  you,"  Audrey  said,  trying  to  smile. 

"Your  hair?  Rubbish!  Don't  be  such  a  baby.  My 
hair  is  a  dark  brown  naturally,  only  I  decided  years  ago 

363 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

that  auburn  would  be  more  suitable.  Haven't  you  noticed 
that  some  of  the  red  has  gone  out  of  it  since  first  you  saw 
me  ?  I  preferred  your  color.  I  told  Lucille  to  study 
yours.  She  makes  up  my  dye.  I  called  you  into  my  room 
one  day  at  the  Hall  to  let  her  study  it.  I  think  it's  pretty 
good  now.  It  made  mine  look  just  a  little  bizarre." 

She  was  talking  to  gain  time. 

She  actually  found  herself  at  a  loss,  face  to  face  with 
this  newly  discovered,  grave -eyed  little  daughter.  Au- 
drey's seriousness  disconcerted  her.  She  was  convinced — 
dismayingly  convinced — that  she  would  have  ideas  on  the 
subject  of  daughter  and  motherhood.  She  was  sure  that 
she  would  see,  with  her  clear  young  gaze,  through  all  the 
pretty  speeches  which  she  had  concocted,  and  in  which  she 
intended  to  gently  convey  two  or  three  unpalatable  facts. 

"You  have  grown  thinner,"  she  said,  abruptly. 

She  stared  unmercifully  at  the  blush  which  overspread 
Audrey's  face. 

"I  wish  I  could  blush  like  that,"  she  said,  carelessly. 
"What  are  you  doing  it  for,  child  ?" 

"I — I  don't  know.     This  room  is  rather  hot." 

"Is  that  all  the  answer  you  have  ready  ?  Fling  me  that 
box  of  matches,  will  you  ?  Now,  let  us  talk  it  all  out 
clearly.  To  begin  with,  I  understand  that  your  up-bring- 
ing has  been  strict  and  old-fashioned.  It's  a  pity.  That 
sort  of  thing  has  gone  out.  I  do  hope  you  are  not  filled 
with  milk-and-water  platitudes  as  to  a  daughter's  duty 
towards  her  mother,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

Audrey,  to  her  horror,  felt  herself  growing  hot  and  red 
again;  it  was  as  if  all  the  poor  little  conscientious  resolves 
she  had  been  making  lately  had  been  dragged  ruthlessly 
forth  into  the  light  of  day  to  be  examined  and  mocked  at. 

364 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Mrs.  Pat  did  not  see  this  blush;  she  was  busy  lighting  a 
fresh  cigarette. 

"Nowadays,"  she  resumed,  "mothers  are  so  young 
that  they're  either  comrades  or  rivals  of  their  daughters. 
They're  never  that  sort  of  peculiar  compound  they  were 
supposed  once  to  be — teacher,  sympathizer,  angel,  and 
so  forth.  They're  human.  I'm  human.  So  are  you.  I 
don't  feel  in  the  least  that  I  want  to  take  you  to  my  heart 
any  more  than  you  feel  that  you  want  to  take  me  to  yours. 
The  whole  position  is  absurd  and  theatrical — and  horri- 
bly hard  on  me.  Your  sudden  existence  will  give  all  the 
cats  in  my  set  a  glorious  opportunity  to  exercise  their  spite. 
You  add  a  dozen  years  to  my  age." 

Audrey,  looking  bewilderedly  at  her,  thought  that  she 
really  looked  as  if  the  dozen  years  had  been  added.  She 
remembered  her  amazement  that  she  could  have  so  young 
a  mother.  Now  Mrs.  Pat  did  not  look  nearly  so  young. 
And  she  had  grown  so  plain!  Vaguely  she  supposed  it  was 
because  she  was  not  powdered.  She  did  not  understand 
that  the  elaborate  system  of  make-up  and  toilette  had  been 
dropped  as  unnecessary  for  a  daughter's  eyes.  Nor  could 
she  know  that  Mrs.  Pat,  in  spite  of  her  common-sense, 
chafed  beneath  the  young  eyes  that  saw  her  at  last 
as  she  really  was.  Mrs.  Pat  was  angry  now  with  herself 
that  she  had  not  put  herself  into  Lucille's  hands  before 
admitting  Audrey,  and  she  was  angry  with  herself  for 
experiencing  such  an  absurd  sensation.  All  of  which 
added  to  the  tiresomeness  of  the  situation,  and  helped  to 
sharpen  her  tongue. 

Audrey,  sitting  there  so  quietly,  was  dismayed  at  the 
sense  of  antagonism  which  she  experienced;  every  minute 
her  hostility  grew.  She  found  herself  longing  to  return 


THE    GREATER   MISCHIEF 

sharp  answers;  she  felt  most  intensely  irritated.  She  did 
not  know  that  her  attitude  of  mind  was  caused  chiefly  by  a 
deep  mental  partisanship  of  Susan.  She  was  bristling 
inwardly  on  Susan's  behalf,  waiting  for  a  word  against 
her.  She  was  Susan's  daughter;  it  was  a  natural  instinct, 
and  it  had  its  complement  just  as  naturally  in  a  shrinking 
from  the  new  mother  thrust  upon  her.  Her  coldness 
illogically  incensed  Mrs.  Pat.  She  said,  sharply: 

"Why  don't  you  say  something?  Did  you  expect  me 
to  welcome  you  with  open  arms  ?" 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should,"  she  answered,  seriously. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  sarcastically.  "Apparently  you 
don't  feel  any  particular  stirring  of  affection  yourself." 

Audrey  was  distressed. 

"It — is  so  soon  yet,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Pat  laughed. 

"Please  don't  trouble  to  make  excuses.  I'm  glad  you 
are  so  sensible.  It  makes  it  a  little  less  difficult  for  me. 
I  know  sentimentalists  hold  that  the  tie  between  a  mother 
and  child  is  something  mysterious  and  wonderful  and  inde- 
pendent of  circumstances.  But,  you  see,  we  prove  the  con- 
trary. Had  I  always  had  you  I  suppose  I  should  feel  dif- 
ferently towards  you — at  least,  I  should  be  used  to  you. 
Really  that  woman  should  be  punished!  If  it  were  not 
for  the  tiresome  publicity  and  the  money,  I  would  see  that 
she  was  punished.  She — 

"You  mustn't  say  anything  against  her,"  Audrey  put  in, 
quite  quietly.  But  her  eyes  had  grown  suddenly  very  angry. 

Mrs.  Pat  was  amused. 

"So  there's  a  suspicion  of  a  bad  temper  hidden  beneath 
that  softness  ?  Well,  the  woman  doesn't  interest  me.  I 
should  not  believe  her  story  at  all  if  it  were  not  for  that 

366 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

cousin's  dying  confession.  Dying  people  are  really  the 
most  selfish  in  the  world:  they  never  think  of  anything  but 
their  own  puny  souls.  So  long  as  they  can  cleanse  them, 
they  do  not  care  what  havoc  they  leave  behind  them! 
What  lives  they  ruin!  What  skeletons  they  drag  out  of 
the  family  cupboard!"  Suddenly  she  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders. "All  this  is  beside  the  point."  Then  she  talked. 

Audrey  gathered  a  good  deal  from  that  talk.  At  first 
she  essayed  a  tentative  effort  to  get  on  a  better  footing 
with  her  new  mother  by  proffering  a  shy  sympathy  when 
Colonel  Jackson  was  brought  into  the  conversation. 

But  Mrs.  Pat's  stare,  her  obvious  amusement,  sent  the 
sympathy,  hot  and  abashed,  back  upon  itself.  After  that 
she  sat  quiet  and  listened. 

Mrs.  Pat  wrapped  her  unpalatable  facts  in  a  certain 
amiable  vagueness,  but  she  had  the  uncomfortable  convic- 
tion throughout  her  talk  that  Audrey  was  being  distinctly 
shocked.  She  grew  angry,  and  indulged  in  more  reckless 
talk — exaggerated,  smart,  not  meaning  half  what  she  said. 

Audrey  said,  in  a  pause: 

"Why  did  you  tell  me  to  come  ?" 

"I  thought  it  better  to  talk  things  over.  There  is  such 
a  middle-class  crudity  about  writing;  there  can  be  no  sug- 
gestions." 

Audrey  rose. 

"I  will  go,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Pat  was  surprised,  and  a  little  ashamed  of  herself. 

" I'm  not  always  so  horrid,"  she  said.  "And  we  haven't 
settled  about  your  marriage  yet.  I  suppose  you  ought  to 
be  married  from  my  house — " 

Audrey  put  in  a  strenuous  "No!"  She  added:  "You 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

367 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

Mrs.  Pat  reddened  a  little. 

"You  are  very  rude,"  she  said. 

"You  have  been  rude  to  me,  too,"  Audrey  replied, 
gravely,  "but  I  am  sorry." 

Mrs.  Pat  found  herself  making  excuses. 

"We  have  nothing  in  common.  It  is  not  my  fault.  All 
these  years  we  have  grown  apart.  I  should  shock  you  all 
day  long."  She  paused,  recognizing  the  futility  of  the 
excuses,  and  rather  amused  at  herself  for  essaying  them. 
But  she  really  began  to  feel  quite  a  lack  of  animosity  to 
this  daughter  of  hers,  who  was  displaying  such  unexpected 
common-sense.  "You  do  understand,  don't  you?"  she 
said,  suddenly. 

"Yes,"  Audrey  said.  "You  want  me  to  go,  and  never 
come  back." 

"Good  gracious!  What  a  hateful  way  of  putting  it! 
You  have  horrible  manners,  child!  I  shall  be  quite  glad 
to  see  more  of  you  later  on.  Just  now  your  presence 
would  be  inconvenient,  that's  all." 

"Yes,"  Audrey  said.     "Good-bye." 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

UP  in  the  nursery  at  the  Hall,  Audrey  sat  and  worked. 
In  and  out  went  the  needle.  "I  must  hurry,"  she 
said  to  Bobbie,  who  lay  asleep  on  the  rug  before  the  fire — 
"I  must  hurry."  She  knew  that  Bobbie  was  asleep,  but 
she  could  not  help  saying  it;  she  loved  the  sound  of  every 
syllable — "I  must  hurry,"  she  said. 

Euphemia,  curled  up  with  Bobbie  and  the  nursery  cat, 
cast  a  liquid  glance  at  her,  then  curled  tighter  and  went 
to  sleep.  Audrey's  hands  lay  among  the  soft  white-and- 
green  stuff.  ...  In  two  days  he  might  come — in  two  lit- 
tle, long,  short,  interminable  days!  And  she  would  never 
hurt  him  any  more.  All  her  life  she  would  try  to  make 
up  for  the  way  she  had  hurt  him. 

She  rose  restlessly,  and  went  to  the  window.  The  short 
afternoon  was  closing  in;  the  ground  was  powdered  light- 
ly with  snow — the  world  had  grown  so  beautiful  again! 
When  Martin  came  she  would  climb  that  hill  again  in  a 
wind  that  roared  and  blew 

When  Martin  came.  . . .  She  must  hurry.  He  had  said 
once  that  he  loved  her  in  white.  Would  he  think  the 
white-and-green  blouse  pretty  ? 

In  and  out  went  the  needle;  she  must  make  the  tiny 
rosettes  for  the  yoke — he  had  noticed  them  once  on  an- 
other blouse  of  hers,  and  had  laughed  at  them.  Martin 

369 


THE   GREATER    MISCHIEF 

laughed  so  nicely;  he  looked  at  you  while  he  laughed  as 
if  he — he  liked  you  very  much. 

She  rose  again,  and  went  to  a  mirror  hanging  on  the 
wall.  She  was  afraid  she  had  grown  ugly.  What  would 
he  think  of  her  ?  Anxiously  she  scanned  her  reflection, 
putting  up  the  white-and-green  stuff  to  her  face.  Then 
she  gave  a  little  soft  laugh.  What  did  it  matter,  after 
all  ?  Her  eyes  strayed  to  the  quiet  old  hills;  she  held  out 
her  arms  with  a  childish  gesture:  "Dear,  old,  friendly 
hills!  You  are  always  watching — and  you  are  glad  Mar- 
tin is  coming  back.  We  will  come  out  to  you — into  your 
beautiful  gray  mist  —  Martin  and  I — "  Her  breath 
caught  with  the  last  words;  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 
It  was  so  wonderful.  .  .  . 

In  and  out  went  her  needle;  she  was  sewing  on  the  lit- 
tle rosettes  now.  The  firelight  was  so  beautiful;  she  re- 
membered how  she  had  watched  it  shine,  one  evening, 
on  Martin's  head.  And  once  he  had  laughed,  and  said 
that  she  had  only  just  missed  having  a  little  red  head.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  her  thoughts  went  out  to  Susan.  She  remem- 
bered how,  the  evening  before,  her  mother  had  sat  looking 
into  the  fire.  She  had  seemed  suddenly  so  little  and 
worn  and  sad.  Audrey  had  gone  to  her  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  .  .  .  Susan  had  told  her  that  she  must  not  call 
her  mother  any  more. 

Audrey's  mouth  closed  with  sudden  firmness;  her  face 
grew  stern.  She  would  never  call  Mrs.  Hartley -Dent 
mother.  Susan  was  her  mother.  She  refused  absolutely 
to  look  upon  Mrs.  Pat  as  her  parent. 

She  had  suffered  a  good  deal  after  Susan's  revelation 
to  her  of  her  parentage.  She  had  rebelled  strenuously 
against  the  idea.  Then,  with  her  natural  conscientious- 

370 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

ness,  she  had  forced  herself  into  making  good  resolu- 
tions. 

She  had  fought  against  the  curious  feeling  of  hostility 
that,  on  hearing  Susan's  story,  had  grown  up  in  her  against 
Mrs.  Pat.  She  thought  the  position  out  very  earnestly, 
but  she  could  find  no  responsive  chord  within  her,  so  far 
as  Mrs.  Pat  was  concerned.  She  went  to  Susan  much 
troubled. 

"M(  '  -r,  I  am  your  child.  I  feel  it.  I  can't  make 
myself  ok  upon  Mrs.  Pat  as  mv  mother.  Must  I  try?" 

"Yes,"  Susan  said. 

She  added  slowly,  as  if  against  her  will,  and  as  if  she 
must  know: 

"I  don't  understand  your  attitude  towards  me,  Audrey. 
Don't  you  realize  the  wickedness  of  what  I  did  ?" 

Audrey  winced. 

"Don't  say  it,  Mother!" 

She  tried  earnestly  to  explain,  but  she  could  not.  She 
could  only  reiterate: 

"I  don't  feel  like  that  about  it,  Mother.  I  feel — oh, 
I  am  all  in  sympathy  with  you." 

Susan  knew  that  it  was  because  she  was  her  daughter.  It 
seemed  to  her — now  when  she  had  no  further  need  of 
proof — that  every  day,  every  hour,  brought  to  her  evi- 
dence of  Audrey's  true  parentage.  It  struck  her  vaguely 
as  being  very  cruel. 

Audrey  went  on  trying  to  do  what  was  right.  She 
made  many  resolutions;  she  would  try  to  love  her  new 
mother;  she  would  live  with  her  if  she  wished  it,  only 
she  must  come  and  stay  for  months  with  Susan.  She 
put  one  slight  memory  vigorously  aside,  and  that  was  the 
misleading  remark  Mrs.  Pat  had  once  made  about  her 

371 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

age.     To  Audrey  it  was  a  falsehood,  and   she   tried   not 
to  think  of  it. 

But  after  her  interview  with  Mrs.  Pat  her  attitude  had 
completely  changed.  She  had  returned  home  looking 
stern  and  pale. 

"She  doesn't  want  me,  and  I  don't  want  her,  Mother." 
Later,  after  much  thought,  she  had  said: 
"I  cannot  help  it  if  she  is  my  mother.  She  isn't  like 
a  mother.  If  she  had  brought  me  up  she  would  still 
never  have  loved  me.  I  feel  it.  You  have  done  every- 
thing for  me.  When  I  am  with  you  I  feel  all  restful  and 
good.  When  I  was  with  her  I  felt  bad,  I  felt  all  prickly 
and  rubbed  up  the  wrong  way.  I  am  not  going  to  try 
and  feel  like  her  daughter  any  more."  She  was  quite 
firm  and  decided  about  it.  Her  usual  strong  sense  of 
duty  seemed  perverted;  nothing  could  shake  her  deter- 
mination. 

Three  little  rosettes  were  made  and  sewn  on;  she  studied 
the  effect  with  her  head  on  one  side.  Once  Martin  had 
taken  her  hand  in  his,  and  had  marvelled  at  the  cleverness 
of  her  fingers.  .  .  . 

"Rule  Britannia,  Britannia  rules  the  waves, 
Britons  never,  never,  never  shall  be  slaves,'' 

sang  Bobbie,  drowsily. 

Audrey  put  down  her  work,  and  ran  at  her. 

"Oh,  Bobbie!     Oh,  Bobbie!"     She  hugged  her. 

"Poor  ole  Bob's  got  five  cattlepillers  an'  twelve  spiders 
an'  ninety  hundred  flies  all  crawlin'  'bout  in  her  foot," 
said  Bobbie,  pathetically. 

372 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

"It  has  gone  to  sleep.     I'll  rub  it,  darling." 

She  took  off  Bobbie's  shoe  and  sock,  and  rubbed  her 
foot  between  her  hands. 

"  Bobbie,  what  do  you  do  when  you're  so  happy  that — 
that—" 

"You  bust,"  prompted  Bobbie. 

She  laughed. 

"No  one  in  all  the  world  has  ever  felt  as  I'm  feeling 
now.  No  one  could,  because  there  isn't  another  Martin 
anywhere,  and  there  never  has  been!  That's  logic.  Oh, 
Bobbie,  there  are  heaps  of  poor  people  who  think  they're 
quite  happy,  and  they  don't  know  what  it  means!  Not 
an  atom!  Because  they  haven't  got  Martin,  you  see. 
And  I  have!  I  have,  Bobbie!  I  don't  deserve  him,  but 
I  have  him!" 

"Martin's  comin',"  Bobbie  said,  drowsily. 

"Yes.  Martin's  coming!  Martin's  coming.  Sup- 
pose— " 

She  knelt  there,  a  sudden  awful  realization  upon  her 
of  what  it  would  mean  if  Martin  were  not  coming. 
.  .  .  How  had  she  lived  through  those  days  when  she  had 
thought  he  would  never  come  again  ? 

"Say  it  again,  Bobbie!     Say  it  again!" 

She  seized  Bobbie's  fat  shoulder  and  shook  her,  a  sud- 
den unreasonable  fear  upon  her. 

"Say  it  again,  Bobbie!" 

Bobbie  did  not  open  her  eyes.  An  indignant  murmur 
came  from  her  lips: 

"You  awful  naughty — to — to  'noy — poor  ole — Bob!" 

Audrey  knelt  on  the  rug,  the  ruddy  firelight  gleaming 
on  her  head.  She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Suppose 
his  boat  was  wrecked  ?  It  was  a  thought  that  had  come 

373 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

to  her  often  lately.  Once  a  boat  had  gone  down,  and  her 
father  had  been  drowned.  .  .  . 

"Bobbie,  say  it  again!     Say  that  he  is  coming!" 

Bobbie  was  fast  asleep. 

The  door  handle  was  turned,  the  door  opened.  Martin 
stood  there. 

She  stared  at  him, trembling;  she  whispered  then:  "You 
— needn't  say  it  now,  Bobbie." 

"Little  red  head!"  Martin  said,  with  a  queer  laugh. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

THE  sun  had  set,  and  the  world  lay  now  in  a  wonderful 
green-gray  light.  In  the  west  there  were  still  a  few 
pink  clouds  that  every  moment  grew  paler. 

Susan  sat  at  her  window,  her  face  luminous  in  the  weird 
glow;  her  hands  lay  idle  in  her  lap.  There  was  a  subtle 
change  about  her;  some  of  the  rigid  erectness  of  her  stiff 
little  figure  had  gone,  her  shoulders  were  a  little  bent.  In 
the  beautiful,  ghostly  light  her  face  shone  patient;  there 
was  a  peace  in  it.  She  looked  as  a  woman  looks  who  has 
come  through  great  trouble  and  sickness,  and  in  the  end 
found  convalescence,  but  not  the  full  measure  of  the 
health  and  strength  that  were  hers  before  the  illness. 
Something  Susan  had  lost  which  she  would  never  regain, 
and  the  struggle  of  the  manner  of  that  losing  had  left  traces 
that  would  never  be  obliterated.  But  she  did  not  regret — 
she  had  never  once  regretted  the  way  she  had  acted.  Only 
she  felt  older  than  she  had  before;  some  of  her  hard  energy 
had  left  her.  And  the  world  had  grown  somewhat  empty. 

Sitting  there,  alone,  in  the  deepening  dusk,  she  looked 
a  pathetic  figure.  The  strong  light  accentuated  the  lines 
and  wrinkles  in  her  face  that  should  not  have  been  there: 
it  showed  up  the  thinness  of  her  figure;  it  made  her  lone- 
liness poignantly  apparent. 

She  was  resting.  It  did  not  strike  her  as  strange  that 
she  should  be  doing  that:  she  did  not  pause  to  remember 

375 


THE    GREATER    MISCHIEF 

that,  a  few  months  ago,  it  had  been  a  thing  quite  alien  to 
her.  In  those  days  she  had  never  rested,  except  at  night, 
in  her  bed.  Now  she  had  been  preparing  for  Audrey's 
visit.  She  would  not  allow  the  country  girl  who  acted  as 
maid  to  do  the  tiniest  thing  in  preparation  for  this  home- 
coming of  Audrey's.  She  was  coming  to  stay  awhile,  and 
Martin  was  coming,  too. 

Everything  was  ready.  In  two  hours  they  would  be 
here.  Her  hands  trembled  suddenly  in  her  lap.  In  two 
hours  she  would  know  if  her  sacrifice  had  been  worth 
while.  One  glance  at  Audrey's  face,  one  sound  of  her 
voice,  would  tell  her  more  than  all  the  happy  letters  she 
had  received. 

She  was  glad  the  pale  crocuses  which  she  had  set  last 
autumn  had  come  up.  Audrey  loved  flowers.  She  had 
heard,  with  a  grim  sense  of  amusement,  Martin  comment 
on  the  fact  as  an  instinct  inherited  from  Mrs.  Hartley- 
Dent.  She  had  thought  that  once.  Her  heart  ached  sud- 
denly over  the  memory  of  her  harsh  dealing  with  the  in- 
stinct through  the  years  of  Audrey's  childhood.  Now  she 
would  have  strewn  her  path  with  flowers,  but  it  was  too 
late.  The  crocuses  were  there — pale,  tearful,  sad  little 
ghosts  in  the  twilight,  their  beauty  beaten  out  of  them  by 
the  rain  that  had  fallen  that  afternoon.  Still,  she  was 
glad  they  were  there.  She  leaned  from  the  open  window 
to  look  at  them.  The  scent  of  wet  mould  came  strongly 
up  to  her,  the  green  light  was  fading  from  the  sky,  the 
pink  clouds  had  grown  cold  and  gray.  For  a  minute  she 
was  unconsciously  and  unusually  affected  by  the  intoler- 
able sadness  of  the  dying  world.  She  was  affected  more 
easily  lately  by  outside  things  than  she  had  been  wont  to 
be.  It  was  as  if  her  fight  had  weakened  the  grim  armor 


THE   GREATER   MISCHIEF 

of  beauty-blindness  with  which  she  had  girded  herself 
about. 

Leaning  from  the  window,  she  heard  the  sound  of  ap- 
proaching hoof-beats,  of  wheels.  She  caught  at  the  sill, 
and  stood  listening.  She  could  not  see  the  road  from  her 
room;  she  told  herself  that  it  was  some  passing  farmer. 
.  .  .  Could  they  have  caught  the  earlier  train  ?  It  was 
not  an  express.  But  could  Audrey  have  been  impatient 
to  get  to  her  ?  She  stood,  a  little  gray  figure  in  the  twi- 
light, waiting.  She  heard  the  wheels  stop.  The  farmer 
had  met  a  friend  outside  her  gate.  .  .  . 

She  turned  from  the  window  and  went  to  the  door.  She 
stood  listening,  her  head  close  to  the  opening. 

"Mother!" 

It  rang  up  the  stairs — a  joyous  young  voice. 

Susan  caught  at  the  handle  to  turn  it.  She  knew  now 
that  her  sacrifice  had  been  worth  while.  Her  odd  little 
face  puckered  suddenly  with  a  curious  smile. 

"I  told  her  she  wasn't  to  call  me  that!" 

She  turned  the  handle  clumsily. 

"Mother!     Where  are  you,  Mother  ?" 

It  was  nearer  now.     Audrey  was  running  up  the  stairs. 

"Mother!" 


THE    END 


••in  mil  inn  inn  inn  in |j  in |[  |f |j  mi 

A     000133611     4 


